


Lies of a Lost Girl

by Freyjabee, wordslinger



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Collaboration, Multi, Private Investigator AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 19:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freyjabee/pseuds/Freyjabee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordslinger/pseuds/wordslinger
Summary: When her case comes to ex-detective Jellal Frenandes, all he knows is that aristocrat Yukino Agria is missing and the police have hit a dead end. Jellal specializes in finding connectivity in dead ends, though, and soon finds himself unraveling a complex web of lies stemming from a very different girl than the media and her family knows.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaborative work between Freyjabee and myself. All of our favorite characters are here.

Rain fell through the fog and hit the ground with enough force to send it splashing into Yukino's impractical high heels. Her feet slid around and her ankles tried to twist but she never slowed her steps or walked more carefully. It had taken a lot of courage to walk out of her family's estate home and even more still to navigate Magnolia's streets with only the light of streetlamps to guide her. If she went any slower than she already was, she was afraid she'd lose conviction and turn right back around. She'd go through the front door and no one would ask her why she was tromping through the night with her luggage rolling behind her because no one would have noticed she was gone. Maybe tomorrow morning when breakfast time came and went and she  _didn't_.

_You're almost there_.

She clenched the grip on her umbrella and fought with a gust of wind. When it eased off again, she was able to tip up the umbrella's edge and see that the buildings had changed. They'd been homes like hers, huge and cold and dark, ostentatious monstrosities that were built to nurture pride, not happiness, and then, as she got further into Magnolia's city center, they'd turned squat, sided with plaster, siding, and logs, not brick and stone. Some lawns were untidy; most were nearly nonexistent.

Voices reached her ear and she felt her heart get gummed up. Two boys came around the side of one of the houses, both retreated into jackets that looked neither waterproof nor warm. They were young, maybe seventeen, and looked at her once and not again. Yukino couldn't risk stopping; she kept her hold on her luggage and pulled her own hood up with the hand that held the umbrella so her face was mostly obscured. Without her umbrella totally covering her head, she was soaked through in no time. Another gust of wind tried to tear her hood off again. She cinched the fabric at her throat and held everything in place.

The street she traversed met another and she went left. Just ahead was an old play theater and on its other side was a decommissioned train station. Train cars all lined up in a row glittered, wet with rainwater and set ablaze by the orange streetlight, beneath which sat a cherry red Buick Skylark. It didn't run silently, the fan was going for the heater and the engine was huge and loud. Its lights made a swath through the darkness; rain drops glittered like diamonds as they cut trails through the glow. The door squealed as it opened and a person stepped out, sheathed in shadow beneath their parka.

Yukino stepped into the light and thought she would have been scared of drawing attention if she wasn't so scared of doing  _this_.

* * *

The loft was messy but not filthy. Jellal thought the distinction important. The low table near his front door held a collection of keys, loose change, and the mints he always took from the bar but never popped into his mouth. A coffee table that had seen better days – days which long preceded the one when he'd spotted the thing near a dumpster and hauled it up a flight of rickety stairs to his apartment – held a miniature mess of the one on his dining table. Jellal ignored the scattered stacks of papers and files and sealed envelopes waiting for stamps. He  _especially_  ignored the thumb drives still in their packages and the scanner in the box it had been delivered in. Technology irritated him. He needed the mess. He needed to  _see_  the papers.

Despite his cluttered living space, the kitchen was immaculate. When the sounds of percolation rumbled softly, Jellal slid open the door leading to a small balcony. With a click of his lighter and a deep draw off a fresh cigarette, his day truly began. Not even coffee could get his mind working the way Turkish tobacco did. He couldn't really afford the specialty smokes but he did skimp on the coffee beans. Store brand... name brand. Who could  _really_  tell?

He didn't hear his front door open and shut until he settled back into a plastic chair with a hot mug of cheap coffee. She didn't turn to wave at him as she clicked across the parking lot on her heels much too high for such an early hour. He doubted she cared enough to realize he was even watching. A cream colored Cadillac DeVille just as immaculate as his kitchen sat waiting just where she'd parked it the night before. Jellal finished off his cigarette as she ducked inside. She wasn't a late sleeper. Dreams never did anything for girls like Lisanna.

Jellal left his mug on the edge of the railing and stretched. The day wouldn't wait forever and the calendar he had tacked to the wall proved it. Just as much as he disliked the idea of retrievable cloud files, Jellal  _hated_  anything other than seeing his work detailed neatly in color coded lines. No clicking and waiting. He needed it  _there._ Right on the wall. There was a method to his mess and an identical calendar was on the wall behind his desk in the office he rented. He spent a good deal of time making sure everything matched up but he needed it. His head still rang sometimes and dates and such got fuzzy.

On this particular day, he thought himself in working order. He had a date with a woman uptown who sported a neck brace her insurance company thought unnecessary. The SIM card in his camera held hundreds of pictures of her watering plants and walking her dogs but so far, nothing damning. But it was a Thursday. Jellal felt lucky on Thursdays.

He dressed in a typical pair of trousers and  _almost_  didn't roll his sleeves up but a morning of sitting in his car, bending his arms to hold a camera to his eye, and hoping he wouldn't have to piss in a bottle made the decision for him. On his way out the door, his eye strayed to the line of photo frames collecting dust on the only table not cluttered with his work. He'd  _never_  have dared to roll up his sleeves back then. Instead of regret, he felt a smirk. It was okay to look on Thursdays.

Thursdays were lucky.

* * *

A blast of cold air greeted him when he pulled open the door of his office. The shirt that had been clean when he'd left home was now damp with sweat and stuck to his back. He was grateful the air conditioning had been fixed but now he was cold or maybe just irritable. Jellal fell into his leather desk chair – the only part of his office setup he'd splurged on – and sighed. His eyes fell to the closed laptop on his desk and he reminded himself this  _one_  bit of technology couldn't be avoided. In his line of work, proper high-quality photo processing was important.

Within an hour he'd picked out ten good shots of the woman uptown lugging bags of potting soil from her car to her front door sans neck brace. Lots of heavy lifting. Surely a woman with a significant injury wouldn't be able to perform such a task. Jellal had no love for bureaucratic agencies like insurance companies but the woman  _was_ a fraud and he  _did_  have bills to pay. There were only so many jilted husbands and wives looking for confirmation of an affair who could afford him.

The email to his contact at the insurance company was sent just as the sun creeped across the floor of his office. He hated the berber carpet. Jellal liked soft things underfoot but this office was cheap for the area. He stuck around until the bank transfer went through and then snapped his laptop shut. Before taking off he visited the wall calendar and crossed off the day. He'd do the same thing at home before bed. The ritual kept him on track.

Across the hall from his office, the massage parlor's lights were already off. Had they been on when he'd come in? Jellal stared at the door for a full ten seconds before shaking his head. Of course they had been. He'd seen the young woman's car in the parking lot. Jellal's jaw hurt for the pressure in the clench. Thursday wasn't even over yet and he could feel Friday creeping.

* * *

Mira's was a bar on the south side of town. The outside brick had been whitewashed more than once but if a person knew where to look they could still see the old Satan Soul mural beneath. Bright colors like those didn't disappear so easily. Jellal knew Elfman kept a store room full of white paint in the back. Didn't matter. Just like Jellal's fuzzy head, some things could never be fixed.

Inside, the crowd was tame. Weeknights were mostly blue collar stiffs, like himself, looking for a drink and pub food. Fridays and Saturdays Elfman could be found prowling looking for troublemakers amongst a very different crowd. The hunched shoulders of a man in a tan trench coat at the bar caught his eye and Jellal damn near spun on his heel and walked right back out. But he didn't. Mirajane winked at him and laid out a napkin and a lowball filled with something she knew he liked. The man in the trench coat didn't bother to turn around even when Jellal took a seat one stool down.

"I can't believe you'd show up here on a Thursday," Jellal muttered appraising the glass. Perfect. Mirajane never served anything other than perfection in a glass. If he played nice she'd feed him, too.

"Doesn't matter what day it is," Laxus muttered. "You know I don't buy into that superstitious shit."

"So you're an equal opportunity day ruiner?" Jellal glanced over and found Laxus grinning. The scar on his cheek wrinkled.

"I am. It's my special talent."

"Asshole," Jellal said around the rim of his glass. Mirajane appeared with a basket containing the best cheeseburger and fries south of the highway.

"Get along, boys, or I'll kick you both out on your ass."

"You're a doll, Mira," Jellal said, smiling.

"You're just predictable." She refilled his glass and turned to leave.

"Nothing for me?" Laxus asked in an offended tone. Mirajane stared at him blankly.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Jellal stuffed his mouth with cheeseburger and kept his eyes down. He'd enjoy his food before Laxus pissed her off enough to take it away.

"Aw come on," he pleaded. "It's been a day."

"I suppose I can whip you up something." Mirajane whirled around and made her way back to the kitchen. Jellal rolled his eyes at the way she swayed her hips. The game they played irritated him more than it should, long-standing as it was. Laxus's food was served with less sweetness than Jellal's and he finished off the burger before ruining it.

"Why're you here?" Jellal asked picking through the remainder of his fries and knocking back the rest of the glass.

"I can't come here now? Are we not friends anymore? I'm hurt, Fernandes."

"Fuck off and tell me."

"Which do you want first? You want me to fuck off or tell you?" Jellal spun on his stool and glared. Laxus laughed. "I'm just checking up on you. Just making sure everything's above water."

"I'm fine. I do better than you." Jellal watched him finish off his food and wipe his hands on a napkin.

"I'm just here for shits and giggles, Fernandes, you don't need to get tetchy. Not everything's official business all the time." Mirajane swished by to grab their empty baskets and replace them with cold beers. Jellal took a long pull and dug into his pocket for his cigarettes. "You still smoke that expensive shit?"

"I do what I want." He sucked on the cherry and grinned. "I saw the news on Monday. Looks like you've managed to piss off Eustacio Agria. Nice work." Laxus scowled.

"The Captain chewed my ass over that but I'm a cop, not a magician."

Jellal shrugged. "I had a good laugh over it." Laxus eyed him closely and finished his beer. Jellal hadn't been out of the game so long he'd forgotten Laxus's expressions. "What?"

"Nothing." Laxus stood and adjusted the lapels of his coat. "I'll see you around."

Jellal watched him go and as the door swung shut behind him, a throb between his temples took up a familiar residency.

"You okay?" Mirajane asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket. Jellal could feel another set of blue eyes on his back as he left the bar but he didn't turn. Neither of them ever turned. Thursday was on its way out and he wanted to get home.

* * *

Jellal's loft apartment used to be an industrial mill until the city bought it up and rezoned it as residential. They did the bear minimum to make it livable, meaning that they installed proper plumbing and over the stained concrete floor, they laid wood. As a perk and to encourage tenants, the city installed balconies. Aside from his kitchen, that was the nicest part of the place. And that was okay. Thirty years had passed since the building's rebirth and it was showing signs of age but that's what Jellal loved about it. It was unique, right down to the two steel poles that still occupied the apartment's center. He furnished around them—a single flat screen TV he never turned on (it wasn't the best money could buy but it was pretty damn good) a leather couch that Jellal considered throwing out any time he used it for things it was never  _meant_ to be used for (who knew that a person could stick  _so much_ with their clothes off?) and a plain rectangular table that he'd found in the same alley he'd lugged his coffee table out of. The chairs around it didn't match— _those_ he got out of a garage sale for twenty-five cents each. Laxus used to mock him for it, back in the days when he'd stop by and they'd drink some beers and watch some trashy movie. He could afford better so why didn't he  _have_ better?

They were just things. Things to get used and worn out, and he didn't  _care_.

The parking lot was larger than it needed to be. The mill had been segmented into four apartments and the lot could have fit twenty cars. When Lisanna's DeVille wasn't parked lopsidedly beside Jellal's black Roadmaster, the lot only had two other vehicles in it. A cranberry coloured Mustang and a huge lifted pickup belonging to the man that rented the apartment directly below. That vehicle was consistently parked across three spaces. He was living on inheritance and soon enough, his money would run out. Jellal knew; he'd checked. There were only so many nights a man could listen to Kanye West blaring all the way until eleven, when the noise bylaw took effect, before he started to think about doing something  _rash_. The music always turned off when it was supposed to, though, so there was nothing Jellal could say.

Today when Jellal pulled into his apartment's lot, there was another car, too, this one silver. He read the back,  _Jaguar XK120._ It looked  _very_ out of place. He parked his car in his usual spot and got out his keys before he fumbled in the growing dark, missing the lock because the light over the apartment doors was busted and he was too stubborn to get out his phone and use it as a flashlight.

Perfume came to him when Jellal was  _finally_ ready to get out of his car. It was pungent but didn't make his nose burn like some other stuff might. He had to assume that meant it was expensive stuff. He searched for the wearer and found her where she hadn't been moments before, leaning against the bumper of her Jaguar. She had a phone in her hand and it lit up her face when the approaching night tried to hide it. Her hair was as silver as her car and her face was smoothed in makeup. Jellal recognized her immediately, though not because she was an acquaintance. It seemed he saw her every time he turned on the news lately. There was no doubt in his mind that she was there for him.

_Lucky Thursdays,_ he thought as he crossed his parking lot. Every test he'd ever aced was on a Thursday, he lost his virginity on a Thursday. He'd found his treasured coffee table one Thursday night wandering past an alley on a street he usually never would have taken. He'd survived being shot in the head on a Thursday, too, and now only had a thin scar that ran down the side of his temple to show for it. Sometimes, life was rough, but he  _always_ came out on top on Thursdays.

She looked up and the very last rays of sunlight, weak rods that reached over the top of his apartment building, made her matted lips look dark like cherries left too long to ripen. She sized him up in a snap and Jellal wondered if he looked dishevelled with his sleeves rolled up and his hair messy from pushing it back from his face too many times.

"Mister Fernandes?" She said his name with a healthy amount of scorn and Jellal, who  _always_ felt like he was in control, faltered. He recovered.

"Can I help you?"

"I want to speak with you. Privately."

If it were anyone other than Sorano Agria, on any other day, he would have given her a business card with his phone number, home and cell, and his office address on it. He suspected that she hadn't gotten his home address by any traditional methods, though, and Thursday had brought her to him. How could he ignore her?

"If you want, we can go to my office—"

She spoke over him like she spoke over  _many_ people. "If I wanted to meet in your office, I would have contacted you there, wouldn't I? Your apartment will do."

_Right._  Jellal said, "Follow me, Miss Agria."

Sorano wasn't even surprised that he knew who she was. She was a woman who was known  _everywhere_ she went. Jellal supposed she'd be more surprised if he couldn't bring up her name. She walked at his side and her high heels sang out a symphony. Her ankles never wobbled and her heels never got stuck in the cracks of the sidewalk. Nor in the grates in the stairs leading into his apartment.

The apartment door opened below them and Truck Boy appeared. Kanye followed him out; it was the same old tracks he'd been listening to yesterday and the day before that. He looked up through the grates and Jellal was sure he was peeking up Sorano's skirt because he whistled low and appreciatively. Sorano looked over the edge of the metal bannister and the look she had primed was man-eating. She didn't have to say a word and the Kanye wannabe sank back into his apartment. The music turned down after that. Jellal wondered what it would be like to be gifted, as Sorano was, with the ability to belittle someone with just a glance. It was a talent that extended to her assessment of  _places_. Jellal knew his apartment didn't stand a chance of withstanding her scrutiny as soon as the lock stuck as it had  _every day_ since he signed his lease. He leaned his weight back, pulling the door tight into the frame, and turned the key. It came open with a groan and a gasp and Sorano did exactly as he expected. She curled her nose. It didn't stop her from twitching by him and parting with the fur scarf she had around her neck. That went on the coatrack beside the door, her purse she kept in her hand.

Jellal closed the door and kept it unlocked to keep them both comfortable.

"Thanks for seeing me."

"You didn't give me much of a choice."

"The media has been following me for days," Sorano said and her voice echoed off the concrete walls. "I didn't want to be seen at your office."

Jellal went to his kitchen and felt more at ease there. He knew that while the rest of the apartment was a bit of a write-off, this part at least was above and beyond his own standards of perfection. It smelled like that morning's coffee but that was okay. Sorano followed him in like he hoped she would and put her hip against his counter. Jellal asked, "How did you get my home address?"

She didn't even try to protect her source. "The detective that was handling Yukino's case told me that it didn't have to end there, that you were the best."

Laxus Dreyar. Why hadn't he said anything? Maybe he was going to. Maybe  _that's_ what that look was before he stood, adjusted his lapels and left Mira's. Jellal's annoyance was soothed by one thought: there was no way in  _hell_ Laxus wanted Sorano to repeat those words to his old partner.  _The best._  He was. He knew that. He even knew that  _Laxus_ knew that. It was still satisfying to hear him admit it. "I don't work cheap."

"If you did, I wouldn't be here."

"I just wanted to make sure we were clear on that."

"I can pay," she assured him and Jellal rhymed off a ridiculous number to see if she'd flinch. Not even an ounce. "I want my sister home and not in a box." This was the first time she'd displayed any emotion other than curtness. Her cheeks were pink and it was with worry, her eyes were just this side of glossy. She kept her stuff together. That was good. He kept Kleenex at his office for emotional breakdowns but at home? He'd be breaking out the toilet paper and it wasn't the nice stuff.

"Let's start by you telling me everything you know." He kept a pad of paper in the drawer beneath his utensils. It was unfortunate that it was covered in blue flowers, a gift from Wendy three birthdays ago. Jellal was pretty sure it was regifted. He appreciated the effort  _so much_ he still had it. Or he kept forgetting to give it back to her on her birthday. He made a mental note to write it down on his calendar. The thought was gone almost as soon as it was birthed.

Sorano eyed the paper and Jellal saw the uncertainty in her eyes. "From the beginning," Jellal prodded.

"I can only tell you what I told the police, which isn't much. She was supposed to have breakfast with the family on the morning of the eighteenth. She'd gotten engaged and was going to officially announce it with her fiancé. She didn't show. I checked her room and it was empty. The only thing I could tell was missing was her diary."

"Clothes?"

Sorano shook her head. "I can't say. Yukino had a lot."

She would. Eustacio Agria seemed like the type of man to gift his two beloved daughters with chiffon and silks.

"I can say that she left all of her cards and her driver's license. And, I found this on her floor." She pulled out a golden necklace from her pocket and Jellal recognized the symbol of Pisces. The chain had been broken.

"Does that mean something to you?"

Sorano said, "It came in the mail two weeks ago. When I asked her about it, she seemed shaken."

Jellal lifted his brow. "Shaken?"

"She didn't like talking about it. She was  _scared_ ," Sorano added for emphasis when she feared that Jellal wasn't getting it. "Some creep was obviously stalking her," she blurted. "And now he's kidnapped her and she's gone and she's—" She cut herself off all on her own and sucked in a deep, deep breath. Composure came when she exhaled.

"You're worried but we hardly have any of the facts," Jellal said. "Is it possible the necklace could have been from her fiancé?"

"I asked him after Yukino went missing; he knew nothing about it."

Jellal grabbed a sandwich bag from one of his drawers and held it out. Sorano seemed reluctant to part with the necklace but she did eventually drop it inside. It pooled like molten gold at the bottom of the bag and Jellal thought that little piece of metal had some answers for his curious mind. "Anything else you know?"

Sorano shook her head. "Her phone was left. Her laptop, her car."

Anything he could have used to track her. "I assume the police took all that stuff into evidence?"

"Yes," Sorano said.

That didn't make things impossible but he definitely had to work a little harder for his exorbitant pay. "Anything else?"

"That's all I know," Sorano said.

She was right, that wasn't much to go on. Jellal wasn't surprised. If the police hit a dead end, there was a reason. "Miss Agria, I typically ask for an advance—"

Sorano was already digging through her purse. She had come prepared with a chequebook and wrote out a third of his overall asking price. "You'll get the rest when I have my sister."

Jellal took the cheque with only a moment's hesitation. Usually, he wanted ten percent, not thirty-five but who the hell was he to complain? "Is there a number where I can contact you?"

Sorano plucked the paper and the pen out of his hands and scrawled down some digits. Her writing was small and curly and neat, exactly like he'd expect from a woman like her. When she was through, she gave it back to him and made sure never to touch his hands, like she thought it was below her.

"We'll be in touch," Jellal said.

"Don't come by the house. I don't want to answer any more questions from the media. Call and we'll meet somewhere."

"Sure." Jellal took his card from the pile he kept on the microwave and handed it to her. She took it up with her manicured nails much like she handed over the pen, carefully. Jellal suppressed an eye roll. "Call me anytime, if you have any other information or if someone who does contacts you." He let his hand hover over her shoulder and guided her through his kitchen. "I'll keep you updated on my progress."

Sorano stepped out of his range near the door and gathered up her furs. "Are you sure you're the best?"

"I will find your sister, Miss Agria."

She didn't say thank you and he wasn't surprised. When the door closed behind her, he went for his cigarettes and had one lit before he'd even made it to the balcony.


	2. Chapter 2

Monstrous. That’s how Jellal would describe Magnolia’s largest hospital. It was monstrous in every sense of the word. It was _ugly_ with its grey brick the colour of dirty snow and it was _huge._ It wasn’t always that way. Years and years of expansion provided extra room and gave it a Frankenstein’s monster aspect. Some parts of it were pocked and decayed while the newer sections were all but gleaming, clean. It was all that gross colour, though. Jellal looked at the doors with disdain. He hated hospitals and imagined that it wasn’t in the way other people hated hospitals; his dislike went much deeper. He honest to goodness _loathed_ them and felt completely comfortable saying that.

“You need to pay for parking.”

Jellal looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with a lady with hair a dark shade of fuchsia and eyes the colour of cornflowers. Her mouth was curved upward and her brow was just slightly furrowed. Jellal had seen that look on her before: she’d been trying to get his attention for some time. “Hey, Meredy.”

“Hey, space case. I’m serious. It’s pay for parking here,” she said. “And the Parking Enforcement Officers here are _bastards_.” She looked around sheepishly after admitting that.

“Thanks,” Jellal said.

She smiled and it lit her up; she looked young with a grin on her mouth. “Hey, I’m glad I caught you. They changed the combination on the door this morning. I got the email a few hours ago. I tried calling but…” But he was notoriously bad at checking his phone when his mind was filled with other things.

“What is it?”

“Five, three, nine, four.”

Five, three, nine four. Four numbers to remember. Easy. Jellal silently repeated them again and again, forward and backward, in pairs and out of, using all the tricks he’d learned over the years. “Thanks, Meredy.”

“No problem. Just remember, if you get caught, you didn’t get it from me.”

It felt too cocky to say, _I won’t get caught._ Fate was an impulse buyer.

Meredy waved and flounced off. She was full of childish energy that her patients would either love or abhor. Jellal looked after her with a quarter smile. Then he saw one of the white and blue parking enforcement vehicles turn into the huge parking lot and thought yes, there were hundreds of cars parked there and many without passes, but knowing his luck, he’d get hit. He sighed and dug out his leather wallet and a rumpled looking five. When he went to the parking meter, he was disappointed to see that it was thirteen dollars for an hour. He went with his credit card instead and got a receipt, too. Maybe he could bill the expense to Sorano.

When his dash was filled with a too-expensive slip of paper, Jellal tackled the beast ahead of him. There was a knot in his chest that he refused to call _fear_. Children got scared. Helpless people got scared. Jellal Fernandes? Nope. He had an _aversion,_ not a fear.

Halfway across the parking lot, sweat pricked his brow. He dug a cigarette from his pocket and sparked it up. It was an excuse; he pretended that it wasn’t. He took his time, standing in the ‘smoking’ section, a part of the pavement squared off with red spray paint. When he was done, he took out a stick of Doublemint and popped it in his mouth. The wrapper went into the cigarette butt container by one of the hospital’s pillars and then Jellal had absolutely nothing to keep him from entering.

Automatic doors smeared with the finger grease of bored children groaned on their rollers and invited Jellal inside. It was the smell more than the sight that hit him. Olfactory was a powerful memory jogger. Antiseptic and sickness were in the air, and so was the memory of his last hospital visit. Jellal pumped some hand sanitizer into his hands and rubbed it in. His distraction technique barely worked. What he expected to be his saving grace? The last time he was in this hospital, he hadn’t entered through the front doors, or even on his own volition. The facts didn’t seem to matter in that moment.

_You don’t remember so just put the sweats away._ He did. He did remember. Some things. Sounds, mostly. Talking. Men and women rhyming off a slew of things that were wrong with him. He was bleeding too much at first, and then too little. His blood pressure was dropping. His heartrate was slowing. He remembered his unshakable partner leaning over the gurney with a white face, barking first at Jellal not to fucking die, and then at paramedics and then doctors, too.

“Sir?”

He even remembered the security officer that hauled Laxus’ belligerent ass out of the ER. It was a man almost as wide as Laxus was. A gym rat.

“Hello? Sir?”

Did he still work there?

“Can I help you? Hello?”

Movement caught his attention. Jellal realized he was standing in the middle of the hospital’s reception area, taking up space while men and women bustled around him. The receptionist, a rotund middle-aged woman with pink framed glasses and the nicest smile he’d seen in weeks, was looking at him in a very practiced way. Concerned. Polite. Ready to call security if need be. Jellal squared his shoulders and felt the limits of the suit jacket he’d bothered to don. It was confining but not suffocating; it kept him in this moment. Good. “Hi. Sorry, lost in a thought.” He smiled; it came easy. Good for that, too.

She relaxed. “What can I do for you?”

Jellal shook off the remainder of his stupor. “Not a thing, ma’am. I know where I’m going.”

Her smile dimmed some. “Alright. Have a good day, dear.”

Jellal moved, and the more he moved, the more he felt like he was back in control. He wasn’t bleeding out on a gurney while Laxus screamed in the ears of his doctors, he wasn’t having a bullet extracted from the side of his head. He wasn’t laid up for weeks, relearning how to tie knots in shoelaces or struggling to recall the date when the nurse told him five minutes before or turning green with the worst migraines he’d ever had.

No one really looked his way when he cut past the sick kids’ ward, and the chemo ward and took the stairs rather than the elevator to the basement. If the hospital’s façade was a monster, this was its bowels. The beast really showed its age here. Everything was clean but without luster. White tiled floors and white walls were yellowed. No windows, too many doors. Janitor closets and a Staff Room. Supply Rooms and Locker Rooms. Men’s and Ladies.

Voices could be heard from the Staff Room but the hallway was empty and would stay that way with any luck; the next shift change didn’t happen for another forty-five minutes. Jellal knocked on the locker room door anyway, just in case. No one answered so he turned his focus to the silver keypad. Numbers jumbled in his head, fours and nines, and fives. He chewed his tongue, finger hovering over the steel pads, and wondered if he shouldn’t have written down the new code.

Numbers came to him. Seven, five, three, four. His fingers twitched but he held off. Meredy said nothing about a seven. That was the old code. He almost got frustrated but, god help him, he did the breathing exercise his therapist taught him. In the thick of it, he didn’t clear his mind, he filled it with equations, nothing too complex, multiplication and division, and began solving the problems one at a time. It didn’t always work but sometimes…

He knew when he got the first number right, he _felt it_. The second, too. He didn’t start punching in the code until the third came to him twenty grueling seconds after, and the last fell into place without the rigmarole. The lock’s red light turned green and the door opened. Jellal pushed his way into the room marked Ladies and was hit with the scent of strawberry shampoo from the last shift change. The door closed and locked again and he was alone.

This room was as bland as the rest of the hospital. Small, rectangular and lined with two long benches that sat in front of rows of lockers on either side of the room. At one end was a shower, the floor still damp, and at the other end by the door was a mirror, the glass of which was streaked.

Jellal wasted no time getting to work, studying the lockers. Yukino had been at the hospital for only a couple of years before she went missing, meaning that she’d have a _pretty_ good locker, as turnover was high, but it wouldn’t be as great as some of the veteran employees. He started in the middle, searching for _Yukino Agria_. The first row was a right-off. Jellal moved across the room to the next line of lockers and found what he was looking for.

Yukino decorated her locker with magnets: dark blue roses peppered around her name, and one lone one that sat at the top of the metal door, separate from the rest. Jellal studied them before getting the door open. Those flowers seemed so girlish and hopeful and in that moment, he hoped more than ever that it was as he suspected: Yukino was alive and not in any trouble that she didn’t choose to be in and that she’d remain that way until he found her.

Jellal got to studying the locker’s contents, mainly the pictures of Yukino and her beau at some winery sipping wine in the grape fields, and the one of she and Sorano. Sorano wasn’t in furs there, she wore a pair of shorts and a tank top and stood with her arms wrapped around Yukino’s middle. In the background, Micky Mouse held up his huge hand in a wave. The pictures looked fairly recent but they didn’t tell him anything. Jellal moved on.

A pair of shoes sat at the bottom—dark blue non-slip runners—and a spare pair of lilac coloured scrubs. Jellal took out both items, going through the pocket of the scrubs and coming out empty handed. Behind those was a stick of deodorant, shampoo, a towel, a hair brush and a couple of quarters. He picked the change up and rattled it in his palm. It also had nothing to say, of course.

Jellal heaved a sigh and ruffled a loose lock of hair on his forehead. He put everything back in Yukino’s locker before he got himself in order. When he closed the door again, he started to stand. Those flowers caught his eye again. What was it, though? The one that was separate from the rest, that was what was bothering him. Why? Probably his incessant need to keep things organized in _some_ fashion. Yukino struck him as a girl that needed order, too. It was in the way that all of the other magnets were perfectly spaced apart. She’d taken time and put some _care_ into that.

Jellal didn’t know what exactly a magnet would tell him, but he pulled it from its home anyway. When he did, he heard something slide down the inside of Yukino’s locker. His heart thudded as it _always_ did when he caught scent of something good. He yanked open the door again and there lay his first clue—a scarlet rectangle of paper. He read the name styled out in black filigree and was both surprised and intrigued. _Erza Scarlet_. The mystery deepened.

* * *

It wasn’t that Jellal was anti-social at all, he just didn’t care for most people. Getting to know a person was hard work and the only tedium Jellal tolerated was his own ritual. He would painstakingly maintain his calendars, his files, and his thumb drives full of photos but the process of peeling back the layers of a person only to find out they’re not worth the time already spent, wasn’t his favorite. That being said, one of Jellal’s favorite parts of his job was the interview process - coming in at a close second was sometimes ending his work day early and filling his lungs with expensive tobacco on his patio in nothing but pajama pants.

A badge could get a person through a front door easy, the knowledge of how badges worked because he used to wear one got him in through a side door or sometimes the back. Over the years Jellal come to the realization that a good cop - even a good _detective_ like Laxus Dreyar - could never get the feel of a person like he could. All too often someone on the other end of an interview would reveal a little too much simply because he wasn’t in a position to arrest them. They saw him as less threatening and Jellal took this not as an insult, but as an advantage. More than once someone off their guard had dropped information that led him in the right direction. The moment he met Yukino’s betrothed, though, Jellal knew he was barking up the wrong tree.

Stewart Beckford Eucliffe III hailed from an office in a part of town Jellal knew to be _new money._ It was so gauche, so gentrified, so _garish_ , he couldn’t imagine what a man with money as old as Eustacio Agria’s would find even remotely appealing. If Agria money was the measuring stick of age, Eucliffe money - despite being at least three generations old - was so new the ink still left residue on the tips of fingers. Jellal didn’t care anything about Magnolia high society but for the sake of a paycheck, he kept one eye open.

The receptionist was a young woman - younger than even Meredy - who appeared to be completely unqualified for her position, as her eyes were glued to the face of her phone even as he approached the desk. When she finally glanced up, she jumped and her phone clattered to the marble surface of the desk. Jellal crossed his arms and leaned on the top level where an unprofessional stack of business cards threatened to topple over.

“Can I help you, mister…” she trailed off and her eyes shifted up to the scar that snaked into his hairline.

“Fernandes,” he offered. “I didn’t call and I don’t have an appointment. Is Mister Eucliffe free? I need a moment of his time.”

The receptionist flustered and stood. Her chair was sent rolling backward over the tile floor and crashed into the wall behind her. “Oh! I’m afraid he’s -“ she stalled again and grabbed the black phone receiver from its cradle and clutched it to her chest. Her eyes roved over the army of buttons on the large phone panel and she chewed on her lip. “I’m sorry,” she said after clearing her throat. “I’m new.”

“It’s okay,” Jellal said with his most winning smile. “Take your time.” Some of the tension eased off her face and she smiled back at him. She’d have been attractive, a prospect even, if he were about ten years younger. She stared down at the phone before suddenly remembering the flip panel beneath the body and her expression brightened when she figured out the messaging system.

“Mister Eucliffe?” she said into the receiver, glancing back up at Jellal. “I’m sorry to bother you… oh.” She cut off with a breath and tangled her fingers in the spiral phone cord. “I’m so sorry, sir. Um, no he doesn’t look like a, uh -“

“I’m not a cop,” Jellal said helpfully. He pulled a business card of his own from his pocket and slid it across the upper level of the reception desk.

“A Mister Fernandes?” She paused and worried her lip before exhaling almost silently in relief. “Right, of course, sir. I’ll show him back.” The receptionist cradled the phone and smiled, though somewhat less assuredly this time, before stepping around the long desk. “If you’ll just follow me, please.”

She led him down a hallway with large framed photographs leaning against the walls. Marks had been penciled on the white paint but no nails yet. The office was clearly new and the decorating appeared to be slow going.

“I hope I didn’t get you into any trouble just popping in,” Jellal offered, his eyes still scanning the walls, the floors, and the open office doors. He noted the banker’s boxes filled with stacks of paper in a couple and one with a half-empty box of trash bags and several tied off bags stacked in the corner. Jellal wondered exactly what Stewart Beckford Eucliffe III’s function was and how he’d managed to score an engagement with a girl like Yukino Agria.

“Not at all. Mister Eucliffe can just be unpredictable sometimes when he, uh -“ The receptionist paused outside of the last door in the hallway. She spun around and her cheeks were a bright pink. “It’s fine. I just really need this job.”

“I’ll be sure to call first next time,” Jellal lied with a smooth as silk smile. “No hard feelings?”

“No,” she breathed, smiling genuinely in return. The receptionist whirled back around and knocked softly on the door before cracking it open and peeking inside. “Mister Eucliffe?”

“Thanks, Jenny, that’ll be all,” a young man’s voice said airily. The tone carried a loft often taken by someone without the necessary weight to wield it. Jellal stepped into the office and waited for the door to click shut behind him. Stewart’s office was exactly as gaudy as he’d expected and, as far as he could tell, was the only room in the building that didn’t look like it had been unoccupied a week before.

The young man facing the row of windows that overlooked a steep outcropping of landscaped rocks and the slanted streets that led down to the south side of town spun on his heel to eye Jellal. Jellal slid his hands into his pockets and openly surveyed the room, even though he’d already taken everything in.

“Nice digs,” he said in a casual voice intended to rankle the young Mister Eucliffe.

“When my old man procured this building he didn’t bother to make it inhabitable. It’s been a frustrating process. Good help is hard to find and hold on to. The turnover rate has been shockingly high.” His mouth twisted into a smirk. “If you know what I mean.”

“I’m sure.” Jellal stuffed away the disgust he felt on behalf of Jenny, the receptionist. His eyes strayed to the expanse of blue beyond the window glass and the sloping hill that separated the wealthy sections of the city and the working class. “Do you know why I’m here, Mister Eucliffe?”

The man laughed and fell into a plush couch. He lazily gestured toward the opposite chair and Jellal tried not to express his frustration with what he considered marshmallow furniture.

“First of all, it’s just Sting. Mister Eucliffe is my old man. And, yeah, I can guess. Sorano probably couldn’t leave well enough alone, right?”

Jellal squashed the urge to both quirk an eyebrow and sneer at his choice of nicknames. “She’s employed my services to look into the disappearance of her sister, yes.”

“I figured. Look, I already told the cops everything I know, which is nothing.”

“You were engaged to her, yes?”

“Yep. My old man set that up.”

“So the two of you were involved in an arranged marriage?” He hadn’t seen that one coming, though, he should’ve.

Sting visibly cringed. “I mean, sure, _I guess._ That’s kind of an old timey way of putting it, though.”

“I suppose it is,” Jellal conceded, eyeing him closely. There was something _off_ about him. Something _twitchy_. “But it was arranged for you, right? You and Miss Agria weren’t otherwise entangled beforehand?”

“Nope,” Sting chirped. “She was a real catch until I realized how difficult she could be.”

“Difficult?”

“Aw, you know how it is with these independent types,” Sting waved his hand nonchalantly. “There’s always something they want. Yukino had a lot of weird ideas about her job and all that stuff.”

“I don’t follow.” He did, actually, but Jellal wanted it from Eucliffe’s mouth.

“She had a job and wanted to keep it even after we got hitched. I can’t understand why. It’s not like she needed the cash. Her family’s rolling in it.”

“Was that an issue of contention between the two of you?”

Sting laughed and suddenly leaned forward. Jellal bit the inside of his cheek irritably. The power plays were a joke. “Listen, I’m just gonna lay it all out for you. Yukino and I didn’t see eye to eye on anything. She wasn’t a bitch like that sister of hers but she had a _look._ I figured she was putting up a front so I wouldn’t make her quit her job before the wedding. Yukino was hot, I’ll give her that. I wasn’t even asking her for much. I’ll bring home the money and she should’ve been cool to hang out by the pool during the day or whatever it is women do and wait for me in bed when I get home.”

“Sounds fair,” Jellal muttered. His eye caught on an especially outlandish picture frame oddly placed on the blank wall behind Sting. He grimaced at the thought of Sting actually earning half so prestigious a degree without his family’s money paving the way with gold bricks.

“I thought so.” Sting nodded and leaned back against the couch cushions. The palms of his hands pressed against his knees and he sniffled. Not egregiously but the sniffle paired with the way his fingers twitched knocked a puzzle piece into place.

“And as far as you know, Miss Agria didn’t have any enemies or grievances at work? Strained friendships?” Jellal didn’t actually need the answers to these questions - not from Sing anyway. He just wanted to see how long the guy could hold out.

“No clue. She worked at the hospital, yeah? Changing sheets or something?”

“Miss Agria was a nurse, yes.”

“Well, whatever.” Sting was practically vibrating now. “I don’t know where she went but I’m pretty well fucked as far as my old man goes. He’s pissed about the whole deal. Somehow this is _my_ fault even though I barely knew the chick.”

“The whole deal?”

“Yeah, you know, business shit. I don’t keep track of any of it. I just run the records office here - or Jenny does, I don’t know.” He suddenly laughed and stood. “Look, man, I hate to cut this short but I’ve got a meeting here in a minute and I can’t miss it.”

“Sure.” Jellal stood and dug a second business card from his pocket. He stepped around the tea table between them and handed over the card. Sing’s eyes were dilated and the skin of his neck was splotchy. “If you think of anything else, give me a call. Anytime, doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, will do.” Sting escorted Jellal across the office and all but shoved him out the door. When the lock was twisted into place, Jellal shook his head. On his way out of the building he found Jenny back at the front desk sifting through a box of papers. Her brow was furrowed frustratedly and Jellal felt a pang of sympathy. He understood the concept of a terrible job with a terrible boss who didn’t care about boundaries.

“Thanks for letting me in earlier,” he said, heading for the door. Jenny startled but offered him a parting smile.

“It’s no problem, Mister Fernandes.”

Outside the office the sun still beat down on the pavement but the shadows were longer and had shaded his car nicely. He had one more stop to make before he could call it quits for the day.

* * *

He didn’t need to call Laxus in advance to know he’d be at _Mira’s_ early. The Friday night crowd wasn’t his scene and he’d been known to duck out of the station before quitting time just to grab a meal and catch an eyeful of Mirajane’s hips and ass in the jeans Jellal was pretty sure were actually painted on.

Laxus’s unmistakable broad shoulders were hunched over a basket of onion rings and his beer bottle was still cold. It obviously wasn’t his first of the evening.

“Hey, Jellal,” Mirajane said with a typical grin. She slid him a shot glass filled with something he hadn’t known he’d needed until sliding onto a stool next to Laxus. “I’ll get you something from the kitchen. Lisanna is cooking tonight.” She winked at him and sashayed off toward the swinging doors that lead into the guts of _Mira’s._ Jellal digested her words as the bourbon he preferred rolled down his throat. If Lisanna was in the kitchen it meant she’d come in early and would cut out early. He’d leave a key under his doormat just in case. In truth, it wasn’t a _just in case._ He’d known Lisanna long enough to recognize her patterns.

“How’s it hanging?” Laxus grunted. “You owe me a drink with all the front money I’m sure you scored off that Agria girl.”

“Yeah,” Jellal said, spinning around to face Laxus. “About that. You could’ve said something before she showed up at my fucking apartment.”

“It’s more fun this way,” Laxus said with a grin and a shrug. “For me personally, I mean.”

“You’re a dick.”

“You boys are like an old married couple,” Mirajane interrupted, leaving a basket of perfectly battered and fried strips of chicken in front of him. “It’s not good for a girl’s ego, you know?” She winked at Laxus and pulled off a beer cap for Jellal before grabbing a rag from under the bar. “Eat up, Elf’ll crank it up in an hour or two.”

Laxus shamelessly watched her wipe down the bar from one end to the other. “What do you think?” he finally muttered.

“I think Sorano’s pissed her sister took a hike and I think Yukino doesn’t want to be found,” Jellal snapped. His stomach growled and he focused on his food. Lisanna really had a way in the kitchen. She’d been on her way to a real white smock once upon a time. “It’s a waste of time.”

“She’s paying you pretty well, I’m sure. How’s that a waste of time?”

“I don’t like unsolvable puzzles. You know that.” Laxus shrugged again and Jellal stuffed his face with food. He didn’t speak again until the troll in his belly quieted. “Did you dig up anything when the case was open?”

“Not really. Her closet was still full of clothes but the luggage was gone. She left all her personal shit, which is weird, I admit. But she’s closing in on twenty-five. She can take off if she wants, I guess.”

“That Eucliffe kid’s a real piece of work.”

“He’s a dumbass with a nose candy problem,” Laxus grunted. “Not even a blip on the radar.”

“You have a look inside the car? What about the laptop?”

“I can get you access to the car but the laptop is still in the locker.”

“You didn’t get into it?”

Laxus wiped his hands on a napkin and finally spun around on his stool to face Jellal. He took a long pull of his beer before speaking. “You know how this works, Fernandes. I’m up to my balls in shit I can’t do anything about. The backlog’s a decade long. I got rape kits that need tending to. Missing kids. Dead folks coming out my ears. I can’t push a laptop through the express lane when there’s nothing proving she was taken against her will.”

“I want the laptop.”

“No.”

“ _Yes.”_

Laxus scowled and Jellal ignored it. He finished off his fries in silence and then his beer. “You’re a real pain in the dick, you know that?” Jellal grinned.

“What about jewelry?”

“What?” Laxus blinked and Jellal’s grin widened. He still liked winning this game. “Jewelry? The fuck are you talking about?”

“Jewelry. You _do_ know what that is, right?” Laxus pursed his lips and Jellal finished his beer never taking his eyes off Laxus’s face.

“What do you have?”

It was Jellal’s turn to shrug. “Nothing to worry your pretty head about. You’re balls deep in dead people, remember? I’ll take care of it.” Jellal stood and stretched. The front door of _Mira’s_ swung open and a small group of young people walked inside gabbing loudly.

“If it’s important information, Fernandes - “

“Just get me into the car and get me the laptop. Could be nothing, could be everything.”

“I’m so glad I don’t have to work with your stingy ass anymore,” Laxus groused, turning back toward the bar on his stool. Jellal laughed under his breath and left a hefty tip for Mirajane on the bar.

On his way to the car and all throughout the drive home, Jellal reminded himself to leave the spare key under his doormat for Lisanna. He checked and rechecked four times before falling into bed with a mostly empty bottle of tequila. It wasn’t his favorite liquor by far but it made his company smile when she joined him in bed.


	3. Chapter 3

When Jellal woke, Lisanna was gone but she’d taken the time to tidy his bedside table of dirty shot glasses and the empty bottle of tequila. Lisanna rarely got domestic and it made him wonder how long she’d been awake and why. They didn’t talk about it but he knew her dreams were sometimes stalked by shadows with tight grips and cold walls. There were quite a few things Jellal and Lisanna never discussed. He didn’t want to discuss them, either. He’d seen the case files and remembered the grim set of his father’s mouth back when he’d been just a kid trailing after the man with a serious case of hero worship and too many questions. Lisanna Strauss didn’t need to explain herself to him.

Jellal rolled out of bed and ignored his phone. He already knew the messages would be from Laxus and in increasing states of annoyance. By the time he’d showered and downed two tumblers of water, along with a dose of aspirin, Laxus had sent seven messages. The final one was a simple ‘Impound on 43rd. 4th row in the E lot.’

Normally he wasn’t such a slug in the morning but Jellal liked his Saturdays off or, at the very least, quiet. Dragging his ass to the impound lot across town wasn’t exactly quiet but it also wasn’t heading to his office where he’d inevitably wind up responding to emails that were better left untouched until Monday or adjusting his wall calendar – which would lead to more adjustments when he got back home. Neither of which appealed.

Jellal pulled on a pair of jeans he didn’t mind ruining and an old t-shirt still emblazoned with the Magnolia P.D. logo. It had been washed into a faded glory and softness only years of use could produce. The exact number of years Jellal didn’t examine. Mostly because numbers were a hazy mess in the twisted labyrinth of his head. When he pictured what went on up there it was a badly tended hedge maze. Branches and leaves had grown over what used to be viable pathways and holes of dead brush had been worn into formerly solid walls. He could maintain a select number of paths if he didn’t look too hard or dig too deep. Getting lost wasn’t a thing he could afford to do. He’d worked too hard for that.

On his way out the door, Jellal avoided the framed photos on the wall. Saturday wasn’t his least favorite day or anything, but it was no Thursday.

* * *

He didn’t remember until he rolled up to the chainlink gate that this particular address wasn’t a police impound. It was a private business that sometimes took overflow from city lots and vehicles the police no longer needed but hadn’t been claimed. Jellal reached for the wad of impulse cash in his glove box as he inched toward the guard station.

“It’s been a while, Detective,” the man in the booth said, sliding off his stool.

“Not a detective anymore, Wally, you know that.”

“I know, I know, I’m just messin’ with ya.” Wally Buchannan grinned in a way Jellal was pretty sure only Wally was capable of. Everything about the man was hard edges and a bad impression of a Dirty Harry clip voiceover. The early afternoon sun glinted off the dark lenses of his sunglasses as he leaned halfway out the window. “You got business out here today?”

“Just checking on a car.”

“Yeah?” Wally sucked on his teeth and the sound of it made Jellal’s skin crawl. “I got a hell of a messy file on my desk this morning. Somethin’ about a fucked up transfer of evidence and a loss of custody. Came right from a detective at the M.P.D. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now, would you?”

Jellal smiled brightly. “Not a clue.”

“Ah, well, I was just curious.” Wally retreated back into his booth. “That’ll be two fifty for the pass.”

“Sure thing.” Jellal handed over a five-dollar bill and waited patiently for his change.

“You got four hours. Make ‘em count. Dunno how long the department’ll sit on a car out here when it should be in lockup.”

“It’s best to let the cops do their jobs without interference,” Jellal said with the same winning grin he’d been using to eek past closed doors since he was a teenager. The expression didn’t fade until the chain link gate creaked and groaned closed behind him.

He cruised past row after row of parked cars. Some with life still in them, some not. The E Lot, or East Lot, was the most disused. These cars were right junkers. Jellal rolled by a messy series of scrap heaps that were parked haphazardly and took up more than one space. He didn’t need to know Yukino drove a 1949 Hudson Commodore Eight Brougham convertible to recognize the car as hers. The baby blue paint sparkled in the early afternoon sun and stood out next to her more weathered neighbors. Jellal pulled to a stop and enjoyed the peace before the flurry. Before getting out of his car, he fished a pair of sunglasses from his center console. It wasn’t quite noon yet but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. There was no real way to prevent the headache that would come later but he could stave it off for a little while.

Jellal’s sneakers crunched on the gravel that didn’t help the E Lot in terms of respectability. Laxus had really done his best to stuff the car away for the day, at least. The doors were unlocked and inside the white leather interior was just this side of immaculate. A set of keys with a police tag still attached had been left in the driver’s seat.

Like so many other things, Jellal had a system for searches. He made a circle around the car and noted no exterior damage. A quick look under the hood – Jellal wasn’t a mechanic but he needed to be thorough as this was likely the only alone time he’d get with the car – told him everything looked as clean as the inside. Yukino had taken a lot of care with it. He squatted down and peered at the floorboards. He also felt along the underside of the benches. The backseat was just as tidy as the front. Even the undercarriage was clean except for the expected road guts.

Jellal was frustrated. Why would a person take such excellent care of a vehicle and then abandon it? He had no reason to believe Yukino’s father gave a shit about the car. He had enough money to replace it if she so much as scratched the paint or smeared lipstick on the seats. The first hint of the headache to come throbbed just below the surface of the scar on Jellal’s forehead. He pursed his lips and stood. The police tag fluttered when Jellal snatched the key from the driver’s seat. He stalked around the car and popped the trunk.

“Dreyar, you bastard,” Jellal muttered happily. A laptop, still sealed in a plastic evidence bag sat on the carpeted floor of the trunk. Beside it was a messy grocery bag of papers and loose slips. Jellal didn’t even care that Laxus had sent him such a mess of a file. He left the laptop on the passenger seat of his own car and sat down on the gravel in the shade of Yukino’s boat of a car. With a slow, methodical pace Jellal began to sort through Yukino’s case file. He snapped pictures of official statements, names and addresses of friends and co-workers, and the lists of items Sorano claimed Yukino had left behind. Even though he took the time to examine the lists of Yukino’s sent and received calls, Jellal took pictured of those too. The rest of the file consisted of parking slips for the hospital’s employee lot and credit card receipts for the sandwich shop across the street. Apparently, Yukino preferred turkey and avocado on sourdough.

When Jellal finally stood and dusted himself off, the sun had crept further across the sky than he thought. He half considered leaving Laxus the file just as messy as he’d found it but decided to take the high road. Jellal wasn’t a man of impulse but he did give in when the impulse aided thoroughness. He bent down and ran his hand over the underside and back wall of the trunk. His fingers brushed over what felt like frayed and wrinkled edges of paper. Jellal leaned into the trunk and tugged on the edges and a folded bunch of papers came free.

He stared at them curiously and as he unfolded them he recognized the shape. They were the large, rectangular sheets of calendar paper that were typical of desk blotters. Jellal’s eyes scanned the pages and he quickly dug through the bag of Yukino’s file contents. He found her shift schedule from the hospital and laid the two out beside one another on the hood of his car. The blocks of time never overlapped and the hours from the calendar page were always late at night.  Jellal wondered vaguely if the blotter page was connected the business card he’d found hidden in the door of Yukino’s locker or the broken necklace Sorano had given him.

Jellal wasn’t able to finish his train of thought as the sound of a truck horn blared from the far end of the row. Wally’s arm hung from the window with a smoking cigarette. Had four hours truly passed? He didn’t think Wally would’ve bothered to hunt him down if his time weren’t up. Jellal snapped pictures of Yukino’s work schedule before waving at Wally and returning the file, in its entirety, to the trunk.

With a final wave to Wally, Jellal pulled out of the impound lot. Under Yukino’s laptop in his passenger seat, was a folded lump of calendar paper. He didn’t want to put labels on the case yet but he had a handful of new puzzle pieces now and that put him a little further away from unsolvable.

* * *

Despite his dislike of technology with its bright screens and tendency to fail when he most needed it, Jellal wasn’t ignorant of how things worked. He could get into a locked phone or laptop or even a cantankerous smart TV. Yukino’s laptop was shockingly easy. He simply opened it. She didn’t have a password or any other obvious security. Jellal sighed and shook his head before systematically searching her hard drive.

Yukino’s work email was filtered down from the cloud into a mail app. Mostly schedule swap group emails, hospital memos, and newsletters on updated policies. Her browser history, though, showed two other email accounts. Much to Jellal’s irritated surprise, Yukino kept a tidy spreadsheet of all her accounts and passwords. For all her secrets hidden away in compartments of her car and work locker, Yukino wasn’t very good at protecting herself online.

The first of her two other emails appeared to be full of purchase receipts from online vendors. In the last six months she’d spent an appalling amount of money on lingerie and hotel reservations she’d booked using a credit card number Jellal knew to be different than the one she used to purchase sandwiches during her lunch break. Disposable cards were easy enough to obtain. Jellal also knew one Stewart Beckford Eucliff III was not the beneficiary of Miss Agria’s lingerie. He’d admitted to barely knowing Yukino in their brief meeting. A lover wasn’t all too surprising – he supposed the two had that in common.

Her second email had a cloud storage account attached to it. The contents of that were both surprising and somewhat expected. Jellal scrolled through hundreds of photographs of Yukino in the lingerie she’d purchased with the burner card. The poses weren’t incredibly explicit or racy by Jellal’s standard but the unease in Yukino’s expression spoke volumes. Clearly, she thought them racy and scandalous. Some of the pictures were taken by her and others didn’t look to be possible without a tripod or a partner. The bottom-most folder was mostly nudes. He didn’t care to peruse them too closely but the most recent additions caught his eye. The Pisces charm wasn’t visible but he recognized the chain immediately. On the edge of the photograph, Yukino’s fingers were curled around the ends of loose strands of black hair.

Jellal leaned back in his chair. The dining table chairs didn’t give the way his office chair did. He sighed and reached for the pack of cigarettes on the edge of the table. Outside the air was balmy and dark clouds broke up the last rays of the sun on the horizon. Jellal curled his fingers around the plastic lighter. For all the cash he threw down for the expensive tobacco, he never bothered with anything other than off-brand lighters. Laxus had given him an engraved zippo for his birthday once upon a time. The last time he saw it was… Jellal emptied his lungs, balanced his chair on the back two legs, and propped his feet up on the railing. He didn’t remember when he’d seen the gold zippo last. It was probably rusting into pieces on the floor of that warehouse along with pools of his blood and all the things he couldn’t recall without a splintering headache.

His thoughts drifted back to the girl with the shy but eager expression in the photographs. Jellal was now certain Yukino was neither harmed nor dead. He really should tell Sorano to mind her own business but he needed the money and he really needed to solve the puzzle. His cracked mind wouldn’t allow for anything else. He thought of the blotter pages and the photos and the business card. The curling filigree stuck in his head like the bullet that had changed his life. Erza Scarlet. What a small world.

* * *

For the average person, finding one of Magnolia’s call girls was a task. They hid in plain sight in residential areas, behind closed doors and blinds where they whispered into the ears of the lonely. _Fae_ was like all the others in that regard. It was on the edge of the industrial district, its business operating out of a century home made of brick and mortar so old, it was flaking. That didn’t mean it was less charming, that was part of the ensemble. Tidy gardens, tidy walkways, tidy porch, sparkling windows. Everything was _just so_ to hide what Jellal knew waited beneath.

A knock on the door brought _not_ the woman he was expecting, the contact that would have let him through without much fuss, but the matron herself. When Jellal had first met _Fae_ ’s owner ten years before, he thought then she was strange looking. Tall and willowy, her bones were too long, too close to the surface, body too thin to look anything but insectile. Nothing about her was warm, not the flat press of her mouth nor the sharp edges of her jaw. Her eyes were the worst of it, though, blue like lake ice set deeply in a face wrinkled by Time and her cruel ways. Fingers gnarled like tree roots locked on the doorframe and a voice like rustling leaves croaked out of her throat. “Mister Fernandes. You look waylaid. Were you perhaps expecting someone else?”

Jellal tried a smile. “Not at all.”

“You’re a liar.” So he was. “Carla has the evening off. She asked me to take care of you instead.”

Jellal rolled with the punches. “I’m glad. It’s nice to see your lovely face again, Miss Porlyusica.”

He may as well have been talking to a statue. “You’re a long way from home and sporting your greasy talk. To what do I owe the _esteemed_ honor?”

“I’m looking for this one.” He dug through his breast pocket and pulled out the red and black card. It was difficult to see her name with only the excess light the house parted with. Miss Porlyusica’s eyes were still sharp.

“I’m sure you know how this works, Mister Fernandes. If you want her time, you dial in with your credit card like everyone else.”

“Actually, I’d like to ask her some questions.”

“Regarding?”

The pothole was looking a little deeper than he’d originally thought. “Regarding a case I’m working.”

“A case? What is it you do now that you’re all—” She made a motion by her temple like scrambling eggs, looking to make him uncomfortable, no doubt. “Spy on people, is it?”

“I’m a private investigator,” Jellal said patiently, though he was wise to Porlyusica’s game.

“And what is it you’re privately investigating?”

“I was hired by the Agrias.”

Porlyusica caught his meaning. “I see. That still doesn’t explain why you’re _here_. Eustacio’s daughter worked in the hospital, everyone knows that. Perhaps you should take your investigation to their doors?”

Jellal waggled Erza’s card in front of her eyes. “Normally, I’d agree, but I found this in Yukino’s personal possessions.”

“A person could have picked that up at the Pleasure House,” she named Magnolia’s one and only sex shop. “Many of my employees advertise there.”

That was true enough; it didn’t _feel_ right to Jellal, though. How did he explain _hunches_ to a no-nonsense woman that thought her time was worth so much more than everyone else’s? The smartest thing to do was to not bother. Begging would be the less painful route. “Please, Miss Porlyusica. I only need to ask a few questions. Twenty minutes. Maximum.” He pulled at her heartstrings when she still wore that sour expression. “You could change a girl’s life.”

Porlyusica was soft beneath that hard exterior but not pudding. “Time’s money.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She held out her hand. It had been a long time since he’d been out this way with questions for her and he’d hoped that she would have forgotten but that didn’t seem to be the case. Jellal sighed and rummaged in his pocket again, bringing out a package of cigarettes with one missing. Parting with the good tobacco was painful on an almost physical level. “I’ll write down the name of my supplier for you.”

Porlyusica took up the package. “Don’t bother. This imported stuff is too expensive for a modest business owner like myself.” She stepped back and waved him inside. Jellal cut his losses and took her up on her invitation.

He’d had a couple meetings with Miss Porlyusica but he’d never been in _Fae_ , she’d always come into the station _._ At first, this home looked like every other. White tiled floors dominated the square footage and on the walls was tasteful art. To the left of the front hallway was a living room. To the right was a dining room. Ahead was the kitchen. Upstairs was where _Fae_ dreams were made, and _below_ was where, for a price steeper than many could pay, they were acted out—it was big money for a permit for a pillow house and generally, the matrons only paid for a couple of the employees to be cleared for that kind of work. The fees came out of customer pockets and the matrons lined theirs. _Fae_ owned the monopoly on that small market. For all her griping, Porlyusica wasn’t suffering.

Dark hair caught Jellal’s attention a step into the foyer. He tried to match it to the hair in the photo but this one was far too curly. She leaned against the doorframe for the kitchen and there was a brownie in her hand. She took a bite off of the dark chocolate treat and ate it like it was the best thing she’d had all day, cheeks filling and eyes fluttering. She swallowed and asked, “Who’s this, Miss Porlyusica?”

“Jellal Fernandes, Risley.”

Warm breath brushed Jellal’s ear and a sensual voice rasped, “He looks like he could be a _lawman_.”

Jellal twisted to find another brunette cozying up to him, hair loosely curled on her shoulder, lips slicked with some kind of gloss and curved. He hadn’t even heard her approach.

“Mister Fernandes prefers _private investigator_ now, Cana,” Porlyusica said, though she didn’t sound genuine explaining.

“In _Fae_?” asked another voice better suited to fantasy. Jellal discovered this one on the top of the stairs. Her hair was almost violently blue, the same colour as her eyes.

“It’s been my experience that he shows up in the most unlikely places.” Porlyusica opened the cigarettes Jellal gave her and took out one of the cylinders. When it was lit, Jellal had to squash the intense longing he felt smelling the pungent smoke, seeing it breathed in and out by someone that didn’t appreciate it properly. He exhaled and let it go.

“Miss Scarlet, please.”

“She’s on a call.” Risley brushed crumbs out of her ample bosom and off her fingers, too.

“I suppose you’ll have to wait.” Porlyusica pointed toward the living room where a black leather couch waited in front of a stout, light ash coffee table. She started away then, spinally legs carrying her.

“I’ll keep you busy while you wait.” Cana looped her arm in Jellal’s.

“That’s not fair, Cana, Juvia wants to, too,” Juvia told her from the stairs.

“I’m good at sharing,” Cana replied with a cat’s smile.

“Sure.” Risley took up residence on Jellal’s other arm and squished in with a smile that had won her a lot of favours, Jellal was sure.

“Don’t torment him too badly, girls,” Porlyusica spoke around a puff of smoke and Jellal changed his mind. She looked more like a dragon than a praying mantis.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not a detective for the police?” Cana started to pull him toward the couch. Juvia caught up, barefooted enough to look comfortable in her workplace, but lipsticked up and dressed in some kind of fancy shawl Jellal didn’t have a name for.

“I’ve never met a police,” Juvia hummed. “Not for real. I think sometimes I talk to them, though.”

“I retired from police work,” Jellal explained. “Now I do freelance stuff.”

“Freelance?”

“Miss Porlyusica said he’s a dick,” Risley said to her friends, smiling at the age-old joke.

“A private investigator, yeah.”

“Were you hired to investigate us?” Juvia’s eyes were medallion wide.

“No. I’m here to ask some questions about a customer you may have had.” Jellal sat on the couch. Cana lowered herself down on one side, Risley on the other. Juvia put herself on the thin coffee table right in front of Jellal’s knees, crossed her legs and leaned in.

“One of Erza’s customers?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he said. “Maybe you can help me fill in some of the blanks while I wait for her?”

“We probably don’t know much,” Cana said in a way that made Jellal think she wasn’t planning on being _totally_ truthful.

“You may be surprised.” He rummaged through his pocket for a picture of Yukino and put it on display for them to see. “I’m investigating a missing person. I found Miss Scarlet’s card in her personal belongings _._ Is she someone that you recognize?”

Cana’s nose crinkled. “You know I actually _do_ know her. She’s engaged to that guy, what’s his name? Stewart?”

“Beckingham?” Risley put forward.

“Stewart Beckford,” Juvia corrected.

“ _Sting_ ,” Cana sneered.

“Eucliffe the III.” Risley matched Cana’s tone for scorn.

Jellal made a conscientious effort to listen more carefully. “You’re familiar with both of them?”

“Everyone knows _Stewart Beckford._ There was awhile there where he was in the paper almost every week,” Cana said. “He likes to indulge a bit.”

Risley said, “I heard one time he was invited to one of the Councilmen’s Christmas parties and brought a keg.”

Juvia’s eyes danced with excitement as she said, “Was that the _same_ Christmas party he was caught with Mister Michello’s granddaughter in the kitchens?”

“I think so,” Cana said.

It fit with everything he knew about Mister Eucliffe but it wasn’t anything _new._ “You’ve never met him personally?”

Cana bit her lip. Jellal looked at her hard and silently willed her to part with the truth without the games. “I met him once,” she said.

“Good. That’s good. When?”

“A couple of weeks ago?” she said uncertainly.

Cana wouldn’t do well writing a book on how to be forthcoming. Jellal had to pry every bit of information out of her. “Where were you?”

“Here. I was leaving work.”

“Was he waiting for you? Or one of your coworkers?”

“He wasn’t waiting for me. Or any of the other girls that work here,” Cana said with more surety. “He was standing on the sidewalk out front having an argument with someone.”

“A lady,” Juvia said. “I remember that day. They were really loud.”

“You both saw him having a heated argument with a lady. This lady?” He waggled Yukino’s picture.

“I don’t remember,” Cana said after a brief examination of the picture and Juvia parroted her. “Maybe, maybe not. I didn’t spend much time staring, my asshole radar was lighting up and I wrote him off.”

It was impossible to know if she was telling the truth or not. “But it was definitely Mister Eucliffe you saw?”

Cana nodded. “Absolutely.”

And Yukino had one of Erza’s cards in her locker. It wasn’t a coincidence, he was sure. He drummed his fingers on his knee thoughtfully, thinking of snotty Beckford and the broken necklace, the ropes of dark hair in the picture on the hard drive. A little nagging voice in the back of his mind told him things got heated before she left and he’d find at least some of his answers with Stewart Beckford the III. “What happened after you came out of _Fae_?”

“I got in my car and drove home,” Cana said. “What else?”

“They didn’t stop when they saw you?”

She shook her head. “No idea. I minded my own business.”

Of all the things she’d said, Jellal had the hardest time believing that. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl to just let a thing like that go. Nor did she seem like the type to easily give up information. Jellal looked at Juvia, thinking she’d be the weaker link.

“I had a call then,” Juvia said without prompting. “I stood up to see what was going on then I sat back down and tried to focus. People pay a lot and complain if they don’t have a good experience.”

“Do you remember what was said?” _Anything_ would do at this point.

“What does anyone ever say in an argument?” Juvia mused.

“Nothing I’d want to repeat,” Risley added.

 Jellal heard a door open at the top of the stairs and close again. Cana stood. “That’ll be Erza. Maybe she’ll have something else to tell you.”

Jellal stood. “Thank you, ladies.”

Not one of them acknowledged him. As he crossed the room to the stairs, he got the distinct impression that he was overstaying his welcome. He added that to the growing list of peculiarities in the Agria case.

Though the top of the stairs was mostly dark, Erza’s hair was a beacon. It had been the same the very first time he’d met her, Jellal couldn’t look away from the colour. She leaned on the bannister and folded her wrists. Her mouth curled. “Fernando, right?”

“Fernand _es,_ ” Jellal corrected and then saw her widening grin. “But you knew that.”

She winked. “You’re still fun to tease.”

Time hadn’t made her any nicer. “I came to talk to you.”

“Miss Porlyusica said,” she told him. “Come up.”

Jellal ascended the stairs and organized his thoughts as best he could. They _were_ ordered a moment ago but Erza’s appearance had sent them scattering like bowling pins. The more frustrated he became with them, the further and further apart they got.

At the top riser, Erza took him by the bicep and pulled him toward a room painted lime green. It was a little bit ugly but also, a little bit nice for the same reason, bright and unforgettable. There was a poppy painting on the wall and a white lounge chair in the center floor, beside a stand that held a black, glossy phone with a coiled cord.

Erza put herself down in the chair with an unparalleled grace and crossed legs that were bare for a very long way. “Sit.” She nodded to an angular wooden chair sitting beside the window.

Jellal grabbed it and brought it in front of her. By the time he was seated, his head was less of a mess. The spell had passed and he could think again. “Miss Scarlet—”

“Erza is okay.”

“Erza. Thank you for seeing me.”

She spun her red hair through her fingers and sat forward in an engaged manner. “I probably only have a few minutes before my next call. Whatever you have to say, you better make it quick.”

“Right. This call center is busy.”

She looked at him for a stretching second. “Call center?”

Jellal raised his brow. “Yes?” Had he said something else instead? When he was first injured, he’d been plagued that way but he’d thought his brain had rewired all those connections. He stopped asking for shoes when he wanted toast a long time ago.

Erza laughed and his embarrassment didn’t ease. “Sorry. I haven’t heard it called that before. Cute.”

Jellal sorted through his pockets so Erza wouldn’t be able to see how red he was. “I’m here to talk about this.” He produced her card and handed it over. Erza stopped laughing and focused.

“About my card? If you were interested, you only had to call.”

“I found it in the locker of Yukino Agria.”

Erza’s lips pursed. “Did you?”

“Did you know Miss Agria, Erza?”

“You can learn an awful lot about a person through the kind of work I do,” she said. “We spent a lot of time exploring new territory for her.”

“Over the phone.”

“Yes.”

“But did you ever meet _in person_?”

“Miss Porlyusica doesn’t have a permit for me to do the kind of work that happens in the basement if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It _isn’t_.” He suspected the girls downstairs were giving him the runaround. He was _sure_ Erza was. “Did you ever meet with Yukino Agria face-to-face?”

Erza sighed. “Yes.”

“Thank you. Why did you meet up?”

“We didn’t _exactly_. She came into _Fae_ one day and wanted to use the downstairs. I heard her speaking to Miss Porlyusica and recognized her voice. I was curious, so I snooped a little.”

“Did you recognize her?”

“ _Everyone_ recognized the daughter of Eustacio Agria.”

Jellal sucked on his tooth thoughtfully, the pictures on Yukino’s laptop streaming through his mind. The uncertain look on her face as she looked back over her shoulder while she posed in lingerie that was subtly sexy. “You said you spent a lot of time exploring new territory for Miss Agria. How did she seem when you were speaking to her?”

“Shy at first,” Erza said. “But almost everyone that calls in for the first time is. We talked for a bit and once she was comfortable, we moved into more intimate subjects.”

“And before she showed up here, did she give you any indication that she was leaning in that direction?” It was one thing to call a sex line and another thing _entirely_ to pop in for a visit.

Nonchalantly, Erza said, “I suggested it.”

“And why would you suggest that?”

“She was thinking about spending her _entire life_ with a man and she didn’t know if that’s what she wanted. I told her if she was having second thoughts, she needed to address them.”

An arranged marriage was hard enough but if you weren’t sure you were into the opposite sex… Yukino must have felt like the world was closing in on her. “Do you know who she saw the day she came here?” Jellal asked.

“That’s a question better suited to Miss Porlyusica. She deals with all of that,” Erza said. “She’s left for the day, though.”

Of course, and likely on purpose. “Just a couple of more questions, Erza. Did Yukino contact you again after her visit to _Fae_?”

“No.”

“Did you not think that peculiar?”

“I didn’t think too hard on it, honestly,” she said. “I have a lot of customers come and go.”

“Did you see her coming here again after her visit?”

“No.”

“And were you working the day Yukino had an argument outside of _Fae_?”

“No.”

“But you were aware she _had_?”

Erza’s phone started ringing, the sound shrill. “That’s my next customer, sorry.”

“Can you tell them to call you back?”

She shook her head. “You’re not very familiar with how this all works, are you? Call girls answer calls, Mister Fernandes, my regulars _especially_ expect me to answer theirs.”

“Well, can I see you again?”

The phone got onto its fifth ring. Erza reached over and grabbed it off its cradle, matted lips close to the receiver. “ _Hello_?” Her whole voice changed, got low and smoky. Jellal waited for another moment though, determined to press his luck. Then Erza purred out the caller’s name and he understood he was peeking in on something very intimate.

Erza held out her hand in a _wait_ fashion before Jellal could get around her. She laughed first and told her customer, “We can certainly try.” She took a fresh red and black card from a small pile beside the phone. She wrote on the back in black sharpie and held it out for Jellal. He accepted it tentatively and read the four numbers she’d scribed. Erza covered the receiver and told him in a voice no less sultry, “That’s my direct extension here.”

Jellal imagined being on the other end of that call and said, “I could just come see you.”

“That’s not a very investigative approach, is it?” She gave her attention back to whoever waited on the other end of the line, well and truly sidetracking Jellal from asking what it was she meant as she geared up her customer for the full experience. When she began, she curled her fingers in the cord of the phone and even smiled flirtatiously, though no one but her could see. Her knees came up to her chest and her toes curled in the fabric of the chair and Jellal decided that he needed to get out of there before his looming crossed even further into the realms of inappropriate.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Life sucks and all that.

The Eucliffe office was locked up and empty; that was no surprise, given how late in the day it was. Jellal altered his course and turned his Roadster towards the mansion on the posh side of town. His entry was barricaded by a huge cast iron gate mounted to two stone pillars that were topped by two sentry dragons peering down with perceptive eyes.

An honest to goodness gate attendant dressed in a black suit stepped out of a small gatehouse and approached the car. Jellal noted the gun on his hip before he rolled his window down and smiled. Apparently, the Eucliffe’s took their fortune seriously. “Evening.”

“Sir. May I ask you to state your name and business?”

So formal. “Jellal Fernandes. Private investigator. I’m looking into the disappearance of Yukino Agria and I’d like to talk to her fiancé.”

“Identification?”

Jellal rooted through his pocket and took out his ID. The man took it back to the gatehouse and sat at his computer. Jellal watched him punch things into the keyboard and swipe his fingers on the screen. He paused and read some things. Nodded his head. Then he picked up the phone and called the house, Jellal assumed.

A moment later, he set down the phone and returned to Jellal’s car lofting his ID. “Mister Eucliffe will see you.”

“Thanks.”

The man returned to his hut and pressed a button and the gate slid open with a click and a hum of electronics. Jellal nosed his car up the long, ruler-straight driveway, passing by trimmed bushes, a pond, a statue of yet another dragon and gardens. So many gardens.

He parked at the apex of the roundabout in front of the walkway that would take him to the double doors at the front of the house and got out.

Halfway up the walk, the front doors opened and Yukino’s fiancé came out dressed in a golf T-shirt and a pair of slacks and shoes that looked like they’d never seen the sidewalk. “What’s up? I thought we already talked?”

“We did,” Jellal agreed. “But then I visited _Fae_ and it turns out I have more questions for you, Mister Eucliffe.”

Sting had been looking snotty. Now? He seemed scared. Jellal was watching carefully so he saw the tension fill his muscles and was ready for when he bolted.

If he ran back toward the house, Jellal didn’t think he ever would have caught him, but Sting went _forward_ , trying to bowl past Jellal and make it to the garage, no doubt, where he could get into his car and drive away.

He shoved Jellal and Jellal rolled with it, moving his chest backwards and sticking out his foot. Sting’s toe caught and he went end over end on the walkway. When he stopped, he was staring at the blameless blue sky. His chin was scraped and his breath was knocked from his lungs. He gasped like a fish out of water.

Jellal stood over him. “When you run, you look guilty.”

Sting shook his head and croaked, “I didn’t do anything.”

“If that’s true, you should answer my questions.” Jellal offered his hand and after a moment, Sting took it and stood. That didn’t last long. He had to bend at the waist and, with his hands on his knees, gasped still.

“Hell.”

Jellal was feeling less than sympathetic. “Can we go inside?”

“No. Gazebo,” he replied. “We can talk there.” He straightened and it looked painful. The first step was lurching, the next was better and the one after was better still. Soon, he was walking almost normally.

Jellal followed him around the walkway to the side of the house where a wooden gazebo waited. The sides were open and in the heart of it had a table and a bar. Sting climbed the steps and went immediately for the alcohol. “Drink?” His voice sounded normal again.

“Water,” Jellal said. He needed to keep his foggy head _straight._ He took his notepad out of his pocket and scribed the date in the corner, and the time, and who he was talking to, even, because sometimes, he forgot.

“Suit yourself.” Sting took a bottle of water from the fridge and tossed it Jellal’s way, then poured himself a glass of something clear. He brought it and a wetted rag back to one of the bench seats and dropped down. He used the rag to daub at his chin. He did so with the air of someone who’d had to do a few times before. He was a troublemaker.

“So? What do you want?”

“Stewart—”

“ _Sting_.”

“Sting.” Hell, he hated that name and his first instinct was to deny Sting the use of it but he wanted him to _cooperate_ and in order to get him to do that, he was going to have to be a little accommodating. “Why did you run when I mentioned _Fae_?”

He shrugged. “Because.”

“Because something happened there.”

He shrugged again. “Not really.”

“Then why react the way you did?”

“Because I didn’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“Why?”

“It’s _private_?”

Jellal sat back in his seat and folded his hands over his belly button. “The more you cooperate, the faster I can get out of here. I already know you were there a few weeks ago, I already know that you argued with Yukino. What I don’t know is why. So just cut the shit and let’s get to business.”

Sting huffed. “It’s going to look bad.”

“It already looks pretty bad,” Jellal informed him.

“Fuck,” he swore. And again. “Fuck. Alright. Okay. One of my friends called me to say that they were at _Fae_ ’s and that they’d seen Yukino heading downstairs. I was pissed because my dad was already giving me a rash about _appearances_ and I knew if he knew that Yukino was there paying some broad to fuck her, I’d never hear the end of it. So I met her there. We fought about it. I told her to stop. She called me an asshole. I called her a bitch. She pushed me. End of story.”

Jellal shook his head. “Tell me what happened after.”

“After?” he asked. “She got in that fucking boat she calls a car and peeled out of there. I guess she went home. That was the last time I saw her.”

“Who was she seeing at _Fae_?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sting.”

“Seriously. I asked the old hag that runs the place to tell me who, she refused. I got out of there.”

“And that’s all?”

“ _Yes._ ”

He wasn’t being entirely truthful. “I should make this really clear, Sting. If I hear a different version of events, this could go badly for you. I have friends at the precinct still. They’ll rake you over the coals.” Gladly, Jellal knew. If for no other reason than this case was a black blot on Laxus’ record at the moment. “Obstruction of justice, attempt to mislead an investigation, and depending on how we find your fiancé, a same-sex affair is going to be the easiest storm you and your father’s business weathers—”

Sting looked green. “Okay. I stuck around for a bit, trying to get the old lady to talk. I was pissed. Some redhead and a brunette started throwing stuff at me. Like, shoes and a deck of cards, and a bottle of beer, I guess. It hit my car’s window and broke and got beer everywhere and I thought fuck that. So _then_ I left. I got a carwash, I came home.”

Jellal was more satisfied with that answer, though it proved that Cana had flat-out lied and Erza had dodged telling him the truth. No big surprise. Those girls all tried to protect one another. Breaking into their inner circle would be next to impossible. “You didn’t talk to those girls?”

“No. I wanted to leave, not chat.”

“And they didn’t say anything to you?”

“No.”

“Do you think one of them was Yukino’s lover?” Erza’s hair wasn’t right to match the picture but if it was dark… maybe Cana’s. It felt like a stretch but he didn’t have much just then.

“I don’t know,” Sting said.

Jellal felt a pressure in his temple and prayed that it wouldn’t turn into something nasty. He drummed his fingers on his leg. “Is there anything else you want to disclose at this time?”

“No.”

Jellal looked at him long and hard, trying to see if intimidation would knock anything loose. When he was a cop, this shtick belonged to his partner but he’d gotten a confession or two in his time.

Sting jittered, but Jellal thought that was the drugs, not his conscience. And there was his head again, telling him it was thinking about waging war. He needed a change of scenery and hopefully, that would keep the migraine at bay. He stood and left his untouched water on the table. “Mister Eucliffe, I might need to get into contact with you later. Can I have your cellphone number?”

“I don’t have to give you that,” he said automatically.

“I guess I’ll just keep showing up at your office and your home, then,” Jellal replied. “That’s fine.”

Sting curled his hands into fists. “Wait. You can’t just keep popping by. My old man’s going to start wondering why and I don’t want the drama. Here.” He rhymed off the number.

Turns out he could be reasonable. “Thanks,” Jellal said and programmed it into his phone. “Make sure you pick up if I call.”

Sting grumbled something that could have been agreement. Jellal showed himself out. The gate was open by the time he got his car to its front.

* * *

He shifted in the leather seat of his car and leaned forward to cross his arms over the steering wheel. The hotel was quirky and old. Its exterior was paneled in dark wood and the roof peaked pretentiously high like a Japanese farmhouse. The main body was flanked by two wings – one of which was the office and the other, a sauna. Jellal sighed and allowed himself a groan. He _hated_ off-brand hotels. Anytime he traveled he made a point to reserve a room beforehand and _only_ with establishments backed by a corporation he could sue if anything went wrong. He hadn’t had much opportunity to travel since the accident but he felt even more strongly about the habit _now_ than _before._

Jellal swung his car door open and stepped from the vehicle. Above him, a tacky letter sign read _Three Rivers Hotel._ Yukino had paid for a room here on more than one occasion with the burner credit card she used for hotels and lingerie purchases. He’d managed to track the purchase of the card back to a check cashing store four blocks from the hospital. Without a warrant, he wouldn’t be able to view the transaction record but he didn’t really need to do that.

As Jellal approached he caught sight of a tulip tree that bloomed in the small garden between the two wings. The bright pink blossoms were pretty but something about the way they stood at attention on the ends of so many spindly branches made his skin crawl. Jellal quickened his steps and pushed open the set of glass doors leading inside. He didn’t care for all the reminders of how superstitious he was now. They made him feel frustrated and weak.

Inside the hotel was exactly the kind of camp he expected. Marble floors and faux sakura branches poking out of glazed urns. Jellal stalked past all of it and leaned on the counter. The workspace appeared to be deserted and, on impulse, he reached over to tap the bell. A willowy man with perfectly manicured nails, glamorous eyelashes, and bright green hair tied back in a sleek bun appeared. On the left breast of his vest was a tiny name tag embossed in gold lettering. _Justine-san,_ it read. Jellal tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

“Might I be of service?” he asked in an overly chivalrous tone. Jellal took his time fishing a business card out of his coat pocket and slid it across the smooth surface of the counter. He smiled rakishly and enjoyed the way Justine _-san_ bristled in annoyance.

“I’m looking into a missing persons case and I’m hoping you can help me out.”

With one finger on only the very edge of Jellal’s card, Justine _-san_ pushed the square back toward him. “I’m afraid not. Our guest records are protected by a number of privacy laws. Do you have a warrant?” he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“I’m not a cop,” Jellal offered, still grinning.

“I won’t be able to help you, then.” Justine- _san_ didn’t even look at the card or attempt to address Jellal by his name. He didn’t take it personally, and recognized a power play when he saw one.

“I see,” Jellal said, not touching the card. “I suppose I’ll have to go back to Eustacio Agria empty-handed.” He stood up straight and smiled wider at Justine- _san’s_ gaping mouth.

“Mister _Agria?”_ he asked in a whisper.

“Yes, his daughter, Yukino, is missing. It’s been all over the news.” Jellal slid his hands in his pockets casually. “The police weren’t able to dig anything up so I’ve been asked to step in. But if you can’t help me –”

“She was here,” Justine- _san_ blurted quietly. “It’s been quite a while, though, and I’m afraid the room she frequented has been cleaned several times over.”

“I’d like to have a look anyway, if you don’t mind, of course. I don’t have a warrant.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He finally glanced down at Jellal’s card and reached for a blank door key from the box under the lip of the counter. Justine- _san_ programmed the key and stepped through the swinging half-door. “I’ll escort you to the room, Mister Fernandes.”

Justine- _san_ led Jellal down a gaudily decorated hallway and around a corner.

“Miss Agria always paid extra for the suite. She enjoyed the sitting area, I’m sure.” Justine- _san_ slid the door card through the slider mounted outside of room eleven-twenty-four. He then turned and handed Jellal the key. “Please let me know if you need anything else, Mister Fernandes. You can dial the office from inside the room.”

“Thank you.” Jellal watched Justine- _san_ go before blowing out an annoyed breath and entering the room. The door snicked shut behind him as his eyes scanned over everything. Immaculate felt like an understatement – the room _gleamed._ The half-circle of chairs and tea table had been arranged perfectly. The bed beyond stood in flawless glory. And the bathroom sparkled. Jellal crouched near the bed and peeked underneath for posterity. Unlike cheap motels, this bed wasn’t bolted to the ground and stood on legs.

With a frustrated sigh, Jellal took a seat in one of the chairs and stared up at the ceiling. The room smelled strongly of jasmine and the scent clouded his thoughts – it would be a headache day for sure. Jellal closed his eyes and recalled the photo of Yukino clutching strands of glossy black hair. The blankets beneath her matched the ones behind him on the bed. Just about every piece of furniture in the room had appeared in at least one of Yukino’s photographs. His mind wandered.

_Silver hair. Embroidered blankets. Tiled floors. Black hair. Gold chains. Receipts. Silver hair. Business cards. Cold walls. Old papers. Blood. Red hair. Coiled phone cords. Laxus shouting. A gold zippo. Red hair._

_Red. Red. Red._

Jellal’s head suddenly throbbed where his scar snaked beyond his hairline. He reached up to trace the shape of the scar and couldn’t even scowl for the pain. When he opened his eyes, the mural on the ceiling swam. Everything hurt. He needed to leave.

Justine- _san_ was waiting dutifully at the front desk to wish him a good afternoon and Jellal _almost_ walked right out the door. The voice of reason, the one nearly drowned out by his headache, screamed at him to stop and think. Jellal suddenly turned and approached the desk one last time.

“Did you find the room to be satisfactory?” Justine- _san_ asked stiffly.

“Uh, yeah.” Jellal grimaced painfully. “Just one more thing, though. Miss Agria had a companion, yeah?”

Justine- _san_ shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. “She did,” he began slowly. “Forgive me, Mister Fernandes, I am unused to divulging information of this kind.”

“Take your time,” Jellal muttered with clenched teeth. He wanted to _leave._ He wanted to crunch on a Percocet and take a nap even though he knew it wouldn’t help at all.

“Miss Agria and her… _companion_ always arrived separately.”

“Could you describe her?”

“Dark hair and an expression sharp enough to cut glass,” Justine- _san_ said dryly. “She had a penchant for room service. I daresay it was too much food for two people.”

“Did she have a name?”

“I’m afraid I never asked.” Justine- _san_ huffed irritably and reached for a pad of paper. He began to scribble and Jellal’s eyes couldn’t keep up. “Please understand, Mister Fernandes, there isn’t much more I can tell you,” he said a little too loudly. Justine- _san_ tore the slip of paper from the pad and folded it over three times. He roughly jabbed it in Jellal’s direction and returned to his rigid stance. “I do hope you find Miss Agria. Good afternoon.”

“Right,” Jellal murmured, pocketing the oddly folded paper and turning to leave. The air outside did nothing to quell his headache that was now in full swing. He avoided looking at the tulip tree but still _felt_ its presence beyond his range of vision.

Jellal didn’t glance at the paper Justine- _san_ had given him until he was home and had three red tablets, along with an entire bottle of water in his gut. The handwriting was prim and neat.

_Jenny Realight_

_57 Willow Pl._

He wondered if he’d ever stop being surprised at the smallness of his world. Probably not, Jellal thought as he fell into his bed and squeezed his eyes shut.

* * *

The food truck could be smelled half a block away. Jellal’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since his migraine the day before. Every time he was benched by a nasty headache, Jellal spent a significant amount of time checking the hedges in his mind. All morning he’d been raking over his calendars with a fine-toothed comb. He needed to make sure _everything_ matched and had been assigned to the proper color. Then he’d gone through his emails and glanced over Yukino’s photographs again. After hours of clicking and dragging, Jellal isolated a collection of seventeen pictures. These were the ones containing key elements such as identifiable blankets, pillows, wall art, and glimpses of her dark-haired lover. Now that he felt somewhat human again, he was hungry.

Laxus leaned against the side of his car, his tie tossed over one shoulder and his fingers dripping with grease and sauce. Jellal felt the irritated gaze of his former partner but made no move to walk faster or place his order quicker. The beef shawarma was delicious and Jellal wished Laxus wasn’t about to ruin it.

“You’re late,” Laxus growled, wiping his fingers sloppily on a too-thin napkin.

“You’ve got sauce on your shirt.”

“I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with your ass on a daily basis anymore.” Laxus stuffed the used napkins into the wad of foil and paper wrap. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?” Jellal managed around a mouthful of food.

“The fucking _car,”_ Laxus snapped. “The _laptop.”_

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

Laxus pursed his lips and stalked away to the trash can. When he returned, he leaned against the car again and fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

“I don’t know how you smoke that domestic shit.”

“It’s cheap.”

“Exactly.” Jellal licked the sauce from his fingers and grinned. He really did love shawarma.

“What’d you dig up?” Laxus cut straight to the chase.

“Not a whole lot.”

“You’re so full of shit.” A billow of smoke ruined the smell of the food. “Fucking tell me.”

“Well –” Jellal began slowly. “Yukino Agria had a lot going on.” He could _feel_ Laxus scowling at him. “Her laptop was full of fun stuff. Burner credit card receipts for hotel rooms and lingerie.”

“And?”

“Nudes,” Jellal deadpanned, finishing off his meal. He, much neater than Laxus, wiped his fingers and tidied his trash. “A whole lot of nudes. Stuff she obviously didn’t snap herself.”

“So she had another guy on the side?”

“Nope!” Jellal left Laxus alone by the car and threw out his own trash. He couldn’t exactly say why he enjoyed fucking with his friend so much but he _did._ The Turkish tobacco paired perfectly with the shawarma. “Not a guy,” he finally said.

“Huh. Well, whatever. Who’s the side piece?”

“No clue. I’m thinking a girl from _Fae,_ though.”

“Why?” Laxus asked uncomfortably.

“Because Yukino had a business card from there in her work locker.”

Laxus sighed and stared at the cherry of his own cigarette. Jellal gave him a moment to process before he dropped the real bomb.

“I need to get in touch with Porlyusica.”

“No.”

“I suppose I could pop into _Fae_ and ask her there… but I’d rather not.”

“No.”

“I think it would make more of an impression if I showed up somewhere more private –”

“No.”

“Somewhere more… _homely.”_

“Fuck you and _no.”_

“Just give me her address, Dreyar, I know you’ve got it.”

“I’ve got lots of shit. I gave you the car and the laptop. I’m not giving you the home address of the most exclusive madam in the city. _No.”_

“I won’t rat you out.”

“She’ll know,” Laxus said in a flat tone. Jellal shrugged with false nonchalance.

“I have another lead, I guess it’s fine you’re so stingy.”

“What other lead?”

Jellal grinned and flicked the spent butt of his cigarette. It bounced off the pavement and flecks of live ash disintegrated.

“You’re a dick,” Laxus muttered. Jellal slid his hands into his pockets and waited as Laxus ducked into his car. The sounds of his old partner fumbling around in an undoubtedly messy glove box could be heard before the car roared to life. “Here,” Laxus snapped hanging his arm out the window. Jellal took the wad of napkin from him and stepped away from the car. Laxus didn’t tell him goodbye and Jellal only smiled in triumph.

* * *

Lisanna waited for him when he got home. She’d been at Mira’s, helping in the bar, meaning she could serve herself, too, so she was red-cheeked and sloppy when he walked through the door.

She had for him a brief _hello,_ and a secret, sly smile, then she dropped all of her clothes there in the middle of his living room. Lamplight made ivory of her skin. Her fingers were quick and skilled and soon, Jellal’s clothes joined Lisanna’s on the floor.

He put his table through some trials and when they were done, she pulled her dress on without a word and took one of his cigarettes from the package. Jellal watched her sway to the balcony. The cherry lit up and faded, again and again.

While she did that, Jellal brushed his teeth and showered. On his way back to his bedroom, he noticed that her shoes were gone. It was just as well. Her absence gave him time to think.

At first, while he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, he was making good progress. He could see each party in the Agria case and their connection to Yukino. He put Eucliffe in his place and drew a line from him to _Fae_ and Cana and Porlyusica and Erza, but the addition of red made everything jumbled. The more he tried to sort it out, the more obscure everything seemed.

Jellal started somewhere new and thought about his trip to the hotel room. The embroidered blanket and the tiles and feathered, midnight-coloured hair. Lace lingerie and secrets. Smiles. Room eleven-twenty-four. The numbers bounced around in his mind. One, one, two-four. And suddenly, that was _all_ he could see. Numbers. He couldn’t remember anything Sting said about his visit to _Fae_ and he couldn’t decisively say _what_ Erza had told him, either. There was just numbers and red.

Jellal tried starting again. There was only one thing that was clear, though, and that was the black and red card Erza had scrawled upon. His mind came back to that rectangular piece of cardstock again and again.

Jellal huffed and turned over. The red numbers on his bedside clock stared back at him. It was eleven twenty-four. He rearranged the numbers and came up with Erza’s extension. Four one two one.

It was that goddamn tulip tree all over again.

Jellal stared at the clock, determined to lock eyes with it until it changed. It _had_ to, time stopped for no man. His power flicked then went out.

“Really?”

The surge protector he had his laptop plugged into beeped once, and then the lights came on again. The clock flashed a blank twelve.

It was stupid to take that as a sign; he _knew_ that but Jellal couldn’t let it go, no matter _how_ late it was or _how_ uncertain he was of what hours Erza ran. He wasn’t going to get any sleep unless he satiated the impulse to call her.

His phone was at eighty percent when he unplugged it and put in the number on the front of the card. The phone rang and rang and went to an automated voicemail of sorts, where a woman with a much more attractive voice than Miss Porlyusica answered and went over _Fae’s_ services. He could press one to speak to one of the girls or two to make an appointment to visit the pillow house. He pressed one, was forced to put in his credit card number for an exorbitant fee that he was going to charge right back to the Agrias, and then was offered the opportunity to punch in an extension.

He pressed in four one two one.

While Jellal listened to the phone ring, he tried to imagine Yukino doing this exact same thing. She was randomly paired with a call girl and felt nervous the first time, but also exhilarated, he decided. She was doing something taboo and completely insane but also something that she absolutely wanted to do. He could see how easily it could become addicting.

“ _Hello_?”

Jellal’s stomach flopped. Why was he nervous? It was ridiculous. “Miss Scarlet?”

“Hi, Jellal.” She didn’t need an introduction, somehow.

“I’m glad I caught you—”

“Me, too. I’ve been thinking about you calling all day.”

It was corny but instead of feeling abashed, he felt her voice dig into his guts and could clearly imagine her in her chair, legs up, threads of scarlet slipping through her fingers. He cleared his throat. “Sorry it’s so late.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Well, I’ll try not to take up too much of your time anyway. Can we talk about Sting Eucliffe?”

“We can talk about anything you want to. My job’s making your fantasies come to life.”

“I don’t mean—not in that capacity.”

“If it’s about your case, then no,” Erza said with a teasing lilt to her voice.

“I thought you had to talk about whatever I wanted to talk about?”

“No,” she said again. “If you wanted to talk about work, you would have shown up in person, but you paid for a service, Jellal. So let me do what I do best.”

Maybe he would have hung up if he was the man he used to be. Now, though, with the numbers flashing through his mind, he laughed awkwardly. “Right.”

“It’s okay to be nervous.”

“Yeah.” Like, palm-sweat nervous?

“Tell me about yourself. What do you do for a living?”

“You already know that, Erza.”

“Pretend I don’t. In fact, pretend we’ve never met,” she said. “Go ahead.”

_Could_ he do that? The lights flickered again and he figured he could try. “I’m a PI.”

“What’s that?” she asked leadingly.

“Erza—”

“ _Forget_ we met when you busted Gajeel—” That wasn’t really a problem, the only thing Jellal remembered about the day he first met Erza, he read in a case file—Laxus Dreyar’s brand of memory therapy, back when they both thought things could return to normal, “—and _forget_ about coming to _Fae_ yesterday _._ Play along.”

He felt foolish but Jellal told himself that it was almost like doing undercover work. He took in a deep breath, imagined a calm lake, and stepped away from his self-consciousness. “I’m a freelance detective hired by whoever can pay to investigate whatever they want.”

“That sounds interesting. What drove you to do that?”

He thought about the bullet and the blood and the concrete and the doctor standing over him and Laxus telling him he wasn’t fucking going to die. Was _not._ The heart monitors. The headaches. The memories he couldn’t reach anymore. This new Jellal. And reverent Thursdays. “The puzzles. The cases the cops couldn’t solve.”

“The complicated stuff.”

“It keeps my mind busy,” he tagged on.

“I like complication, too,” she admitted. “But in a different way.”

“Which?” Jellal found himself asking.

“I like men with nice smiles that don’t really reach their eyes. Men with stories to tell. Some people think it’s weird but I like the character.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Jellal said and Erza laughed.

“So I like complication and you like puzzles. What else?”

“Control,” he felt more comfortable in admitting. “I always like to be in control.”

“You’ve had it for most of your professional career.”

“In one way or another.” He was always grappling for it, anyway.

“And in your personal life?”

“It’s the same.”

“I have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“When the door’s closed, have you ever tried… giving it up?”

“How do you mean?”

“Have you ever asked one of your partners to restrain you and then pleasure you?”

His first instinct was to say a definitive _no_ , _thanks_. This was different, though, wasn’t it? He’d never needed a calendar to keep his sex life on track. Given that, he reconsidered and said, “Maybe I’ve thought about it.”

With no hesitation, Erza said, “Me, too. I think about it all the time.”

Jellal couldn’t tell if she was lying or not, which, he supposed, meant she was doing her job. “Being tied up or doing the tying?”

“Tying, always,” she affirmed. “I also like control. I’d start out slow, though. With a kiss.”

Jellal’s blood pushed through his veins a little faster. “Where?”

“On the tips of your fingers. Then on your wrist. I’m wearing lipstick so it leaves a mark. I like the way it looks on your skin.”

Jellal heard himself say, “Me, too.”

On the other end of the line, Erza said, “I step in close to you and kiss your neck above your collar. I leave a mark there, too.” She let out an exalted sigh.

Jellal thought he should find this ridiculous, too, but he was hard despite himself.

“I kiss your lips next, and while I do that, I start to undress you, one button at a time. You try to do the same to me but I push your hands away. You’ll see everything exactly when I mean to show you.”

“You’re mean.”

“Yes,” she said. “And I’m going to make you tell me that again and again and again until I decide to show you how nice I can be, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

            There were two _Willow Pl.’s_ in the city of Magnolia. A _Place_ and a _Plaza_. The _Plaza_ appeared to be zoned for commercial businesses – a very expensive shoe shop boasting couture heels, and an exclusive designer of wedding gowns and formal dresses that probably cost more money than Jellal had spent over the course of his entire life. So he took a chance on the _Place._

            The row of townhomes was neither high class nor low class. This was the type of home Jellal had spent his childhood living in. His father brought him up on a detective’s salary and he knew all too well what exactly a detective could afford. Every other patch of grass had a tree. Number fifty-seven was shaded by neighboring trees but had none to call its own.

            Miss Realight’s flowerbeds were bursting with a variety of purple blooms. He could pick out the lavender by scent but the names of the others escaped him. Jellal stopped just beyond number fifty-seven’s front stoop and stared hard at the purple blooms. He slid his hands into his pockets – a thing he found himself doing without much thought when he was especially perplexed – and tried to pluck the names from his memory. Instead he found himself wandering into a particularly unkempt and narrow hedge in his mind.

            _A golden bun slipping from its tie. Gardening gloves printed with gaudy red flowers that clash with the bright purple blooms of her vines that only open at sunrise. A voice asking him to…_

            Jellal’s chest hurt and his hands began to sweat in his pockets. He blinked rapidly and tried to keep all the blooms in front of him from melting into one big glob of purple.

            A voice startled him.

            “Good morning, Mister Fernandes.” Jenny Realight stood on the front porch of her townhome with her hands clasped in front of her.

            Ah, yes. _Morning glories._

            Jellal cleared his throat and turned to her. “Good morning, Miss Realight.”

            “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you,” she said with a wan smile. “Given the givens.”

            “It’s the givens I’m here to discuss.” He joined her on the porch – two steps up. The house in his memory had three steps – three steps with iron handrails and a trellis that lined the wall. His mother’s morning glories overtook the rails in spring and summer. Every winter she’d prune them down but they always came back in the spring.

            “Come inside, Mister Fernandes. This isn’t a front porch kind of discussion.”

            The interior of Jenny’s house was a mixture of things both old and new. A brand new laptop sat open on the low coffee table in front of a couch that had seen better days. The box was on the floor beside the table. Both chairs that faced the couch were new, as well. Her floors were a sparkling travertine but the stairs leading to the second floor of the townhome were still covered in shaggy grey-flecked carpet. Beyond the front room, Jellal could see the kitchen housed an enviable washer and dryer matching set, while her refrigerator was a chipped white mess.

            “Can I offer you something to drink, Mister Fernandes?” Jenny stood behind one of the chairs. She didn’t fidget in the slightest and he realized the flighty receptionist he’d met before had been a front.

            “No, thank you, Miss Realight.”

            Jenny nodded before smoothing her skirt and stepping around the chair. She closed her new laptop and perched primly on the edge of the couch. Jellal took a seat in one of the chairs. He thought it stiff and uncomfortable.

            “How long has Eustacio Agria been paying you to do his spying for him?” he asked without preamble.

            “You don’t mess around do you, Mister Fernandes?”

            “No, I don’t, Miss Realite.”

            Jenny sighed. “I went to college for accounting and finance, did you know that? My grandmother paid for everything because my parents have always been useless.”

            Jellal watched her intently. He knew some people needed to talk before they spilled their guts for him. Police interrogations weren’t good for making a person comfortable enough to roll on their buddies or family. The cold chairs and tables, blank walls, and tinted plexiglass killed the mood for meaningful confession. A person in their own home was much more pliable – they never recognized their own couch for the corner that it was.

            “I never realized _exactly_ how much it cost her to pay for it all.”

            “The Ivy League doesn’t come cheap?”

            “No,” she said with a sad smile. “No, it does not.” Jenny speared him with her bright blue eyes. “She passed away in my final year and I realized she’d gone into _deep_ debt to pay my way. Fun fact, Mister Fernandes, student debt doesn’t go away even when you die. I was suddenly on the hook for almost two hundred grand.”

            “Yikes.”

            “On top of that I still had my final year to pay for. It was a trying time for me.”

            “I’m sure.”

            “As it turns out I have a pretty face and a body men like. So I used it.” Jellal quirked one eyebrow and Jenny smirked. “Are you the judgy type, Mister Fernandes? It’s okay if you are. It’ll make you just as ordinary as most men, though.”

            “I don’t care in the slightest, Miss Realight.”

            Jenny shrugged and sighed. “I wasn’t able to pay it all off anyway and the notoriety that made me money in racy photos worked against me in the accounting and finance world. Nobody takes a pinup girl seriously.”

            “You seem to be on the up and up now.”

            “When you do a rich man’s spying, that’s about how it goes.”

            “How did that come about?”

            “When I couldn’t get a job doing anything other than selling car title loans, I took a part-time gig at Three Rivers cleaning rooms. They offer a shift differential for working graveyard. Yukino Agria was a frequent guest there. She and a woman with black hair and a black hole instead of a stomach would stay until just before sunrise at least three times a week.”

            “A black hole instead of a stomach?”

            “Their room service orders were outrageous according to the kitchen staff.”

            “Is it typical for the housekeeping staff to keep abreast of the room service habits of guests?”

            Jenny’s grin wasn’t at all sheepish. “Mister Agria paid me a _lot_ of money for information like that.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her thighs. “Can I be completely honest with you, Mister Fernandes?”

“I didn’t get where I am today by running my mouth, Miss Realight.”

            She nodded and stared down at her hands. “I’m hardly on your level when it comes to this kind of stuff. I’m just an accountant and a pinup girl, for fuck’s sake.” Jellal let her work through her thoughts. She was shrewd but not a professional truth digger like himself. “I never got the impression that Mister Agria gave a shit about any of the stuff I told him about his daughter. I think maybe he was just… _watching.”_

            Jellal drummed his fingers on the arm of her chair. His thoughts were slower to churn than he’d like.

            “Yukino was a spoiled rich girl and I admit I envied her quite a bit. Part of me couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t just marry the guy and get her jollies on the side. It’s what I’d do,” she said with a shrug. “Another part of me resented a man controlling enough to set his youngest daughter up with a known asshole like Sting Eucliffe. I suppose it was that resentment that made me hold out on him a little. I didn’t tell him everything.”

            “What exactly did you leave out?”

            “Oh,” she sighed heavily. “I might’ve fudged the descriptions of her lover a little bit. Like I said, I don’t think he cared too much about her having a lover. I think he was just keeping an eye on what he thought of as a business asset.”

            “And how did you come to work for Young Master Eucliffe?”

            “Right before Yukino disappeared, Sting got that office. Knowing what I know, I’d say it was old Mister Eucliff getting him out of sight. In a lot of ways he sees his son the same way Agria sees his daughter but Sting is a lot more problematic.”

            “In what ways?”

            Jenny smirked. She knew he was fishing for things he knew already. “He’s a junkie for one and burns a _lot_ of cash on blow. He’s also not as smart as he thinks he is. His ideas and opinions are halfcocked and embarrassing for someone with an advanced degree. Mister Agria is paying me to make sure Mister Eucliff isn’t trying to wiggle out of certain business agreements. Yukino nuked the whole _‘family trust’_ Godfather fantasy so I guess he’s feeling itchy.”

            “And have you found anything relevant to Miss Agria’s disappearance?” Jellal’s toes tipped right over the line just a hair. He didn’t actually care about Eucliff or Agria and where they spent their money but he did owe Sorano answers.

            “I don’t think so, no. There’s some things I have my eye on but I don’t think they’re relevant to Yukino.”

            Jellal nodded. He believed her. “Tell me about this lover. You said she had black hair.”

            Jenny sighed and flopped back against the couch cushions. “Minerva Orland,” she said. “That’s her name.”

            “Did you know her?”

            “You’re quick, Mister Fernandes.”

            “I’m _competent.”_

            “I knew Minerva in college. We met at a photo shoot. I hated her, to be honest.”

            “Why?”

            “Because she did stuff other girls wouldn’t do and when you have a girl like that on set, it lowers the stock of everyone else.” Jenny shrugged. “I was such a idiot back then. She did a lot better than I did.”

            “How do you know that?”

            “Because, Mister Fernandes.” She speared him with another clear blue stare. “She’s a _Fae_ girl.”

* * *

 

            The edge of Erza’s card poked him in the lip for the second time that evening. His fingers were unused to fidgeting with anything other than cigarettes. He finally sighed and set aside the business card with the black filigree. The cigarette fit perfectly between his fingers and he enjoyed both the smoke in his lungs and the fragranced curls of it floating around him.

            Now that he had a name to go with the glossy black strands of hair in Yukino’s photos he supposed he should dig up a background check. Jellal suspected, though, that a background check wouldn’t give him the kind of information he wanted. He snubbed out his cigarette in the glass tray and watched the last of the sunbeams bleed into the dark clouds on the horizon. He wondered how many calls to Erza Scarlet he could write off on Sorano’s dime – and he wondered if he should wear a flack vest when he paid the inevitable visit to Porlyusica.

            When the sun set, he found the black and scarlet business card in his hand as he tapped it against his lip once again.

            She answered on the third ring. Despite his eventual level of comfort on their previous call, his nerves flared.

            “Hey… Erza.” The laugh that greeted him was low and amused.

            “I was hoping it was you,” she said in a tone that made him feel less ridiculous even though he knew the technique was part of her job. Erza was _very_ good at her job.

            “Your card has been burning a hole in my pocket.”

            “Work stress?” Her question felt absolutely genuine. Jellal gave into the fantasy and stretched out across his bed after tossing aside his shirt. The ceiling fan spun round and round and the cool air kissed his bare skin. “Or personal?”

            “Both. My usual stress relief is…” Jellal trailed off and tried not to think of Lisanna.

            “Otherwise occupied?” Erza offered softly and his eyes slid shut.

            “Yeah.”

            “Do you remember what we talked about last time?”

            “I remember you promising to prove you could be nice.”

            She laughed again and he felt it along the curve of his spine. “I told you I have an affinity for the complex, Jellal. _You_ are layers and layers of complicated mess. I like it.”

            “No one’s ever worded that so positively before.”

            “Good.” He imagined her spinning around in her chair, the coiled cord twisting and twisting. “You said before you like your control.”

            “I do.” Jellal’s bloody memories spattered with bits of his skull and brain blinded him, and the fuzzy ones of grasping at fleeting straws choked him.

            “Does your girl not like it on top?” Erza asked, interrupting the nightmare. Jellal’s eyebrows tried to dent but didn’t quite make it. He couldn’t bring himself to be frustrated with the topic of Lisanna. Not _really_.

            “She does but that’s got nothing to do with me. She doesn’t like it on her back. She’s –”

            “Complicated?”

            “Very. We don’t really talk about it. It’s –”

            “Just sex?”

            “Yeah. You’re good at that, by the way.”

            “Good at what?”

            “Guessing.”

            Erza’s laugh lulled him into something sloshy. “It’s not guessing, Jellal, it’s _reading._ But, yes, I’m quite good at it.” She hummed and he imagined her breath on his neck – hot and intoxicating; and her lips – soft and insistent. “Do you still think you need to have control?”

            “What?” he muttered absently.

            “You don’t have a problem with being led. There’s power in letting go. I would never hurt you in a way you didn’t beg to be hurt.”

            An image of Erza’s hands pressing his wrists into crisp sheets and binding them was _undeniably_ appealing.

            “What if you did?” he whispered, nearly out of breath even though they’d only just started. “What would that be like?”

            “Mm, I want you on your back, I think. Straddling your hips and judging how hard you are already is a good start.”

            Jellal’s hand slid down over his chest and stomach, past all the scars that littered his body, and beyond the waistband of his Magnolia P.D. standard issue sweatpants.

            “I think it’s safe to say,” he whispered. “That I’d be ready the minute you walk in.”

            “You make this _so_ easy,” she purred into the phone. “I very much enjoy the feel of you between my legs. I’ll touch you in every spot between your hips and your wrists.”

            “I think you have a wrist fetish,” he said with a flirtatious lilt. His hand closed around his hard cock and squeezed.

            “Maybe I do. Yours would be an absolute pleasure. I want to pin them above your head but not before leaving my lipstick all over that smooth skin. Wrists are soft, did you know that?”

            “I’ve never really thought about it.”

            “There’s something contradictory about the roughness of a man’s hands and the soft underside of his wrists. Do you have a trigger finger callus, Jellal?”

            His fingers slid over the head of his erection and he bit back a groan. “Yeah, I do.” He thought maybe he heard her breath hitch but wasn’t sure.

            “I tie you up just so.” Jellal’s head wobbled a bit on the thought of restraint. If he couldn’t trust Erza _over the phone_ then he was a much bigger train wreck than previously thought. “Then I’d move down to your neck and leave a mark on your neck and then your shoulder.”

            “You’ll run out of lipstick,” he blurted to ease the tension in both his chest and between his legs. She laughed and he could breathe.

            “I have a lot of lipstick, Jellal. Do you always make jokes when you’re nervous? I told you I’d never hurt you unless you asked.”

            “Sorry.”

            “Never apologize to me.” When she spoke again her voice sounded closer as if she’d moved from her chair to somewhere else. “Maybe I have run out of lipstick. Maybe I leave a red mark on your hip instead of a kiss-print.”

            “That’s…” He _squeezed_ his dick and swiped his thumb over the tip. His toes curled. “Yeah.”

            “My fingernails leave little half-moons on your thighs as I give you a kiss at the very base of your cock. I like the way it tastes as I lick all the way to the tip.”

            Jellal’s teeth dug into his bottom lip until it hurt.

            “I take you into my mouth until you know what the back of my throat feels like. I can feel every twitch of enjoyment, Jellal.” The way she said his name was so smooth, so soft he thought maybe he could actually feel her tongue on him.

            “You kiss me after I wipe the last drop of your orgasm from my lips. Then I fuck you.” Her breath _did_ hitch this time. He heard it. “It’s not what I came to do,” she murmured. “But I like it. I like the mark I left on your hip and I touch it as I ride you. I like the lipstick on your neck and shoulders and I _love_ the way it’s smeared on your wrists.”

            “Erza –” He could hold out until she was finished. He _could._

            “When I can feel you’re close I stretch above you and ruin the lipstick on your wrists. It’s on my thumb now and I leave my print on your cheek.” She exhaled harshly and he felt on the _very_ edge. “I’m _so_ close, Jellal.”

            “Can I?” he whispered before he realized that he’d just asked her _permission_ to finish. He’d think about that later. Not _now._

            “Mm, yes. Right now.”

            All the air rushed from his lungs and he felt his own hot spray on his belly. Jellal could find not even a shred of shame for it. His muscles relaxed and he felt a deep sense of exhaustion and _relief_.

            _“Fuck,”_ he sighed.

            “It was good for me too, Jellal,” she said softly. The pause felt heavy. Loaded. “Maybe…” Erza trailed off and he grinned despite himself.

* * *

 

            Normally, Jellal would type the house number into Google Maps and let that direct him but Porlyusica’s home couldn’t be found. She was completely off the grid, meaning he had to do things the old-fashioned way, checking the green numbers of Magnolia’s outer city limit homes.

            The people that lived there had what he liked to think of as _quiet money_. They were rich but didn’t flaunt the way people like Sting did. They lived on huge treed properties and drove nice, respectable vehicles like Lexus’ and BMW’s. No Ferraris in these long, looping driveways. They had house cleaners that came once every three days and did all of their gardening themselves.

            They were rich but not yet rotten.

            Jellal was so busy squinting at the numbers, he almost didn’t notice the wind grabbing the napkin Laxus scribbled on the previous day. He snagged it when it fluttered onto his dash and almost went out the window, saving himself a lot of headaches. Laxus _never_ would give up the address twice. He had to jam on the breaks afterwards, though, because there was number seven, Columbine Road, a massive, crooked Tim Burton-esque house that looked more like a tree than living quarters, the siding made of brown shingles, staggered to achieve that pine tree bark look. It was so _weird._ It was so _Porlyusica,_ poking up over a miniature forest of lilacs and cherry trees.

            Someone behind him gave him a loud, long honk for stopping so abruptly. Purely out of spite, he smiled at them as they drove by.

            Unlike the Eucliffe manner, there was no gate here, and in the driveway, as he suspected, was a pristine white Audi—borderline audacious but Porlyusica reigned it in last-second. It was a four-door sedan.

            She was outside on the front lawn beneath the shade of a drooping willow, a bag of birdseed in her hand as she filled a feeder, perpetuating Jellal’s presumed stereotype. She turned her long, insectile neck and whatever minute joy she milked from doing this menial task turned to dust and blew away.

            Jellal put his Roadster beside her Audi. He checked his hair before he exited. He didn’t care too much about such things but Porlyusica certainly did. She would judge him if he came to her unannounced _and_ unkempt.

            “Miss Porlyusica.”

            She set her birdseed on the ground so she could cross thin arms over her thin chest. “This is highly unusual.”

            Jellal lifted his lips in what was supposed to be a reassuring smile. “I would have called but…”

            “But my number’s not listed. And neither is my address if I remember correctly.”

            “It was important that I speak to you.”

            “Important enough for that useless boy cop to violate my privacy?” she scourged.

            Jellal scoffed, he couldn’t help it. “Does he know you call him that?”

            “And worse,” Porlyusica muttered. “What do you want?”

            She never did like to waste time so Jellal tried to be just as efficient. Women like her valued conciseness. “I have a source that named one of your employees, Minerva Orland, as Yukino Agria’s lover.”

            Porlyusica puckered reed-like lips. They were painted off-orange and matched with the red and orange shawl she wore. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

            “Were you aware of their relationship?”

            Porlyusica waved him off. “Minerva had people come and go. I never paid attention. Just as long as she came to work and there was never any lover drama, what do I care?”

            “Do you know where I can find Miss Orland?”

            “I’m bound to keep the privacy of my clients _and_ employees,” she said quickly and picked up her birdseed. She started walking toward the house. He followed.

            “I would love to respect that but a girl is missing and her family is distraught.”

            “Girls go missing all the time, and when it happens like this, they don’t want to be found.”

            “Her sister found a broken necklace in her room,” Jellal pointed out to try to sway her. “There could have been foul play.”

            Her eyes got narrow. “I wish you good luck.”

            Jellal stepped in front of her to block her entry into her home. “I’m not going to stop until you tell me something useful.”

            She rolled her eyes skywards. “Then I will get a restraining order.”

            “I have connections,” Jellal whittled with a smile she would absolutely find annoying. “I won’t be the only one that comes calling.”

            “Restraining order,” she hissed. “It’s not the first and it won’t be the last.”

            He wasn’t old man Dreyar, buried beneath a phone sex bill the size of a line of credit, and he wasn’t Laxus, trying to keep her from collecting by putting a lean on their house and cars.

            He told her the facts sans charm. “I’m not here unsolicited. The police won’t be, either, if I’m forced to hand over what I have. With the police comes the press. Me? I’m out here on my own and whatever you say now is between you and me.”

            “You’re like a fucking blight, you know that?” Porlyusica said. “Gajeel’s bullet could have scrambled your brains years ago and the world would be a quieter place.”

            “I know you don’t mean that. I got your get well card after Laxus put him down.”

            She sniffed. “It’s not _very_ often men of the law stick up for girls in our profession.”

            Jellal almost drowned in the flood of memories. His fingers not really clamping down on the cards Laxus stuffed into them when he was awake, Laxus sitting back in his chair after with his arms crossed and a seven-day scruff of beard on his face. ‘ _That one’s from the old lady.’_

            Jellal imagined physically shutting the door on that part of his past and pulled out his notepad from his pocket. “Should we sit here on the porch or would you rather head inside?”

            Porlyusica pulled up one of the wicker chairs on the deck outside of her home by way of response. She crossed her long legs and her arms and drummed her long tarsal-like nails on her thin and wiggly biceps.

            Jellal got right down to it because he was afraid she’d change her mind. “How long has Minerva worked for you?”

            “Since the day she turned eighteen, seven years ago.”

            Most waited a little while, gradually finding their way to the trade through other means. “Did you know her beforehand?”

            “Do you have any more of those cigarettes?” Porlyusica asked. Jellal withheld his sigh and produced the pack. He gave her the whole thing and lit one for her when she placed it between her lips. She breathed in deep and exhaled and gave him what he wanted to know. “She tried applying when she was just sixteen. She had a fake ID and a fake SIN card to go along with it. It was convincing, but…” she tapped beneath her eye. “You have to be thorough these days.”

            “Why was she so desperate to work at _Fae?_ ”

            “She had problems with her father, in and out of Juvenile Detention centres.” She waved both things off like they were commonplace.

            “What kind of problems?”

            She leaned over like she couldn’t help but share a good secret, even if it was under threat. “Minerva told me once that he was a thug. He would hurt people and when he asked her to do the same, she would refuse. He’d beat her.”

            “Why didn’t she go to the police?”

            Porlyusica straightened. “Any investigation launched always came up with nothing. People said she was acting out after her mother died and all of her father’s business seemed above-board.”

            “What was your opinion?”

            “Lies are easy to tell when you’re well-connected. Karma came for him, though. He got stomach cancer and died a year after Minerva began with me. I don’t think a soul in Magnolia cried over it.”

            No. Sometimes, people really did get what they deserved. “Was Orland her maiden name?”

            “Have you ever met a sex trade worker that went by their real name?” Porlyusica asked.

            He thought of Erza’s bright, bright hair and the way her name seemed to be _made_ for her. “Of course not.”

            She nodded. “She never told me what it was before.”

            A woman like Porlyusica? She didn’t just hire anyone without doing her research. She knew but she was shrewd. Jellal didn’t think he was going to get anything else from her on that line of inquisition. “Do you know where I can find Miss Orland?”

            “No idea.” Her answer came too easily.

            “I don’t want to have to return to _Fae,_ ” he said with a smile that was supposed to be a touch of smug and a touch of apologetic like he wasn’t _quite_ aware that he was borderline threatening her.

            “You could if you wanted, but you wouldn’t find Minerva there. She gave me her resignation two weeks ago.”

            Two weeks ago. Just when Yukino up and disappeared.

            Jellal tapped his pen on the page of his notebook. So far, there were three notes. Minerva’s name, the number seven, and a doodle of scales that didn’t mean much of anything yet, other than it was exactly what Yukino’s necklace resembled.

_Necklace._

            “How close were they?”

            Porlyusica flicked the end of her cigarette onto the patio stones. “I was Minerva’s employer, not her best friend, Mister Fernandez. The girls would know better than I would.”

            “The girls try to protect their own,” Jellal informed her. “You keep a close eye on _everything,_ Porlyusica. Just tell me if they were close enough to be sending jewellery.”

            “I seem to remember Minerva showing off a piece of gold. So?”

_So…_ he lined everything up. Minerva gave Yukino a necklace. Yukino was wearing it. She went to see Minerva the day she went missing. One of Sting’s friends saw them and told Sting        about it. Sting _claimed_ he came to _Fae,_ where they argued publicly. He also claimed he went straight home after.

            Jellal had been suspicious of that before but now he was _sure_ that was a lie. Sting _hadn’t_ gone home, how could he have? He was so worried what he father was thinking, what his future was going to look like, that he…

            Went to Yukino’s home, where they fought more. Where he broke the necklace right from her neck.

            The question was, did more foul things follow or was he scared of his actions? Cocaine did weird things to people’s brains, it made them erratic and violent and paranoid. Was it _unreasonable_ to assume that something worse happened? Or that Yukino was _afraid_ of something worse happening?

            “Do you have Minerva’s address?” Jellal wondered.

            “That is _definitely_ a violation of privacy,” Porlyusica said.

            “Please, Porlyusica.”

            She sighed and said, “Seventy-seven Mountain View Road.”


End file.
